


Resurrected Mice

by amaruuk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Build, South Downs, The Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Following events at Tadfield Air Base, Aziraphale and Crowley spend the night in Crowley's Mayfair flat. The idea of switching bodies unnerves Aziraphale. As a distraction, Crowley admits that he wants more than friendship. Aziraphale isn't averse—but he's not quite ready to let Crowley know that. From The Swap to the South Downs—what happened next?[Aziraphale] was absently watching the planes flying into and out of Heathrow, when he said aloud, "So, if we were to have sex— Crowley!" He braced himself against the door as the car swerved.The Bentley glided fully back onto the road. "A little warning next time," Crowley growled.After a moment of quiet, the only sound that of the traffic around them and the purr of the car's engine, Aziraphale said, slowly, "So, if we were to have sex—"Crowley's fingers were doing a scale run on the steering wheel. "Yes?" He was still growling. Aziraphale noted the vein in his neck was slightly distended and he could see it throb.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 155





	Resurrected Mice

Somewhere north of the Chilterns, Crowley slumped low on his spine, folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the window, and promptly fell asleep. Aziraphale, beside him, remained rigidly upright, one hand clasped tightly around the pole in front of him. He fretted. He ought to be pleased. Happy. At the very least, relieved. But the night outside pressed in against them, cold and dark, representative of so many of the worries preying on his mind.

They had averted Armageddon, he, Crowley, and the child Adam, who just happened to be the genuine Antichrist. Or he used to be. Now that he had altered the reality of his past, was he simply a boy on the cusp of becoming a youth? Thanks also to Adam, Aziraphale had his old body back, and for that he was immensely grateful. Sharing with Madame Tracey had both fascinated and slightly traumatized him. Considering his current standing with Heaven, he was extremely lucky to have a body at all following his discorporation. Lucky for him, too, then, that he happened to like this form a great deal. 

But it was done. The last six thousand years had culminated in a moment made rather poignant by an eleven-year-old boy who had chosen family and friends and a community he loved over majesty and power. It was, perhaps, a good thing that Crowley and Aziraphale had had nothing at all to do with Adam's upbringing.

Crowley made a soft noise, a sort of snore-snort combination, and fell quiet again. Aziraphale gazed down at him. Their part in all of this had revealed their friendship to both Heaven and Hell. Crowley was convinced that there would be repercussions and they needed to be ready to protect themselves. Aziraphale could not imagine that Heaven would do more than discipline him. Crowley, however, was a creature of Hell, and Hell was not forgiving. Agnes's last prophecy said _choose your faces wisely, for soon enough you will be dealing with fire_. Aziraphale's mind brushed up against the possible meaning of her words, and just as quickly retreated. If he were honest with himself, he already knew that Gabriel's attitude regarding forgiveness was not dissimilar to Hell's.

And so he fretted.

His bookshop was gone, and Heaven and Hell hated them both. Perhaps it had been the Lord's plan that everything would turn out like this, that his and Crowley's efforts would ultimately have counted only at the very end. But he had initially chosen Heaven over his friend, had truly believed that Heaven was the only right option, the only power strong enough to stop Armageddon. But Heaven had lusted for war with Hell, with the demented prospect of destroying humanity and the Earth, and as many of each other as they could. Heaven had failed him utterly. Well, to be fair, he had failed Heaven, too. But Crowley—

He sighed. As if alerted, the demon drew himself upright, his hair going every which way. He glanced around sharply at his surroundings, coming to focus briefly on Aziraphale, apparently making sure that he was still there. Then he slumped back down again, and this time dropped his head against Aziraphale's shoulder. He rubbed his cheek across the soft fabric of Aziraphale's jacket, as if it soothed him, and went limp again. The gloom of what was to come seemed to recede a little, and Aziraphale allowed himself a tiny smile. At least he wasn't alone.

* * * 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale nudged the demon a little harder than intended and almost toppled him over.

"What? What?" Crowley scrambled to sit up.

"Look. The M-25."

Crowley looked. By then the bus was crossing directly over the London Orbital. Other than roadside lighting, reflective signage, and the ghost shafts of headlamps, everything was dark. "No burning cars," Crowley wondered. "No charred people. No smoldering ruins."

"Was it Adam?"

They looked at each other. "Must've been. He controlled reality, remember?"

"I—didn't expect that he had done more than erase Satan from his past. It looks as if—"

"He undid everything." Crowley twisted round to see the road unravel behind them, as the bus trundled on its way south.

Aziraphale felt a sudden rush of hope. "My shop?"

Crowley shrugged. "Maybe."

"Your car?"

An audible hiss escaped Crowley's lips. "Maybe." He molded himself to the seat once more. "Whatever damage was done to mortals, I'd guess. The burning of your shop affected them. My car—I dunno." Sinking even lower, he splayed his legs to brace his knees and let his head fall back. "Should be in London soon." And he fell back asleep again, despite the weight of Aziraphale's glare.

* * * 

The bus let them off not far from Crowley's block of flats. The driver pulled away from the curb with a handful of cash in his pocket, per Aziraphale's suggestion to Crowley. It was not unlikely that he would be out of a job come morning.

It was well after midnight when they stepped across the threshold of Crowley's flat. Aziraphale looked around interestedly as Crowley said he would get some wine and to make himself at home. He wandered past the kitchen where Crowley was fetching glasses; made a pass through the study with its ornate chair and massive desk and huge wall-hung TV; spent a few moments admiring the lushness of Crowley's plants; peeked into the bedroom and the en suite bath—taken a little aback by the sheer size of the massive four-poster bed, not to mention the spaciousness of the bedroom itself; and stopped just inside the lounge to survey its black rug, picked out with violent red patterns, and the enormous overstuffed leather sofa and matching chairs.

He heard voices and followed them to the study. Crowley was leaning back against the desk, a glass of wine in his hand. He glanced at Aziraphale as he came in, and picked up a second glass, which he held out to him. "The news," he said, as Aziraphale gratefully accepted it.

"Anything?" Aziraphale asked.

"A bit about unusually bad weather and a traffic jam on the M-25. No death, destruction, and a rain of fish."

"That's good?"

Crowley flicked the TV off with the remote. "Come on, angel." He ushered him out of the study and into the lounge. Aziraphale set his glass on a protective coaster on the nearest end table. It had a picture of a huge mouth with a red tongue sticking out of it. Frowning, he sat down in one of the chairs. It made a creaking, aspirating sound that startled him, but he forgot it almost instantly as he seemed to be sucked down into the cushions. He had seldom come to Crowley's flat, both of them more comfortable visiting in the backroom of his bookshop. On the few occasions that he had, he had never stayed long enough to actually settle anywhere. 

The flat was quiet, with the faintest hum of the central heating running somewhere in the background. The only other sound was the complaint of the leather chair as Aziraphale squirmed to make himself comfortable. He was used to structure in his furniture, but this chair not only lacked structure, it was made for someone with Crowley's length of legs.

He picked up his glass and sipped, murmuring his approval, while Crowley stretched out on the sofa. The demon had arranged a couple of square pillows, black with red piping, behind his shoulders. It allowed him to drink his wine, the glass held between both hands, without pouring it all over himself. His glasses lay on the table behind his head.

"You think they mean to punish us," Aziraphale said at last, staring down into the deep red depths of his wine.

"I think," Crowley replied with heavy emphasis, "that they mean to _eradicate_ us."

"That's a bit excessive," Aziraphale protested. "Why should—?"

"We canceled their war. The one they've been waiting for, for six thousand years." His scrutiny was dismissive. In the shadowy lighting, his eyes were very yellow. "And I killed a duke of Hell. They won't be forgetting that any time soon."

"Did you?" Aziraphale was a little nonplussed by this admission.

"Self defense," Crowley said, but he looked away.

"I see." Aziraphale felt himself sinking deeper into the chair. "I abandoned my platoon. They think me a deserter." He made a rueful face. "I refused to fight and then came back to Earth, so I suppose I am a deserter."

Crowley nodded. "And we were seen together at the airbase. Very obviously trying to scupper their plans. Together."

"And Michael and the others think—" But he couldn't bring himself to say out loud what they thought. It made his cheeks redden just to remember it.

"Hastur mentioned you by name," Crowley said, equally damning.

"So they think they have grounds for punishing us. We always knew the day might come when they found out … that we are friends." It was important to him to say that, especially after denying it at the bandstand yesterday, something he had regretted immediately. Yesterday? The day before? "But to _eradicate_ us!"

Crowley sighed. "We should be prepared for it."

"I don't know," Aziraphale argued. "How do we prepare, after all? We _are_ still answerable to them. Whether we like it or not."

Crowley was staring at him with the same pitying look as when he'd reminded Aziraphale that his shop had burned. Aziraphale rearranged himself yet again, and this time it wasn't because of the chair. He asked sharply, "What would they do to you? How … would they do it?"

"Probably the way I killed Ligur," Crowley muttered. Even though he was staring into his glass, he seemed to feel Aziraphale's disapproval, however muted. Abruptly, he went on, "He and Hastur were going to take me back to Hell. Where Beelzebub was going to kill me."

Aziraphale tried to temper his expression. He didn't like the idea of Crowley killing someone, even his own kind; but he could honestly say that he was glad that Crowley was here with him—and not dead. He said gently, "And how was that?"

Crowley closed his eyes. "Holy water."

Aziraphale's chest stilled. He had forgotten to breathe. "The holy water I gave to you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale bit his lip. He must not say more.

After a moment's silence between them, Crowley said evenly, "You?"

"Hellfire." Aziraphale shrugged. "Though, I can't believe they would actually do that." Crowley said nothing. Slipping a finger into his vest pocket, Aziraphale searched for the slip of paper with Agnes's last prophecy. He held it up to catch the light. It was very dim in here; mood lighting, he supposed. "Agnes said 'soon you will be playing with fire.' Maybe she meant that metaphorically."

Crowley drained his glass. He rose all at once, as if all of his bones were still reptilian. "In my case, maybe. But you—? More?"

Aziraphale handed up his empty glass. After a brief struggle with the grasping chair, he stood and followed Crowley into the kitchen. "But, surely, God wouldn't—"

"She was going to let the Earth, and all of its denizens, burn to ash. You can't believe she would concern herself about the likes of us? Really?"

Watching him pour, Aziraphale said downheartedly. "No, not really." He reconsidered. "Maybe a little." Lifting the slip again so that Crowley could see it, he gave it a little wave.

The glass Crowley handed him was very full. "You think God was behind that?"

"Teleologically, one could argue that it fell out of that book, at that instant, in that place, solely in order for me to catch it. One prophecy among thousands. How else would you explain it?"

"Coincidences happen."

Grinding his teeth, Aziraphale nodded tersely. "Granted. But you said it yourself. Maybe the Almighty meant for it to turn out this way. And the guidance we provided was an essential part of it. If we hadn't talked with Adam, explained to him, he might not have understood what he was capable of. And where do you think that would have left us?"

"Dead."

"Well," Aziraphale conceded weakly. "Other than that."

Crowley plucked the slip out of Aziraphale's fingers and read it again. "Choose your faces wisely."

"I'm not sure what that means." Aziraphale hedged. "Do you?"

The bottle at his lips, Crowley raised a finger. When it was empty, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed the bottle on the counter. "I have an idea. You won't like it."

Aziraphale scowled. "I think I know what you're going to say. Why else would we have to choose our faces?" He looked to Crowley for agreement, who just looked back at him, expressionless. Aziraphale tipped his head to the side and hitched his shoulders in a tight shrug. "If I look like you," he said unhappily, "and Hell attempts to kill me with holy water, I won't be harmed."

"And if I look like you," Crowley continued his reasoning, "and Heaven attempts to kill me with hellfire, it'll just feel like a visit home."

"But that … that would mean I would have to go to Hell!"

Crowley looked equally unenthusiastic. "You think I want to go to Heaven?"

A couple of minutes ticked by while Aziraphale drank his wine. His stomach was churning. The fretting he had done on the bus couldn't compare with the state of misery he was experiencing now. He set the drained glass next to the bottle and met Crowley's eyes. "You're proposing that we … exchange our … essences?"

With some amusement, Crowley countered, "Would've said 'swap bodies.' But what you said works, too."

"It could kill us," Aziraphale pointed out darkly. "Remember what I said before, about what might happen if we—?"

"Believe me, Aziraphale, I don't like the idea, either." Crowley cut him off. "But, you know, if we don't _share_ a body, it might be okay."

"it's too dangerous!" Aziraphale's hands were caught together like a welter of snakes, turning and writhing. "I think we should wait. See how it goes."

That pitying look was back. "And when they toss you into hellfire, you'll be obliterated."

"We could be wearing each other's body for months! Years!"

"Or hours," Crowley said calmly. "I think they'll make their move sooner than later." His mouth tightened. "And we shouldn't be surprised if they work together."

Aziraphale swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"You saw how Gabriel and Beelzebub hit it off at the airbase. Think about it, angel. How else would Hell get holy water? Or Heaven, hellfire?"

Aziraphale felt sick. "But we're nothing. We pose no threat to them." His words came out small and empty.

"And that's how we can expect them to treat us." He rinsed out their glasses and set them on the drainboard. It was such a simple thing, so very mundane, that Aziraphale was unreasonably moved. "If nothing happens—" Crowley spread his hands. "We can carry on as before."

Crowley's quiet certainty was reassuring. Aziraphale gazed at him for a long moment, so long it seemed to make Crowley uncomfortable. "So we're going to risk destroying ourselves to avoid being destroyed."

Crowley took his elbow and steered him out of the kitchen. "We've run out of options."

"You're so sure."

Pointing at the slip peeking out of Aziraphale's watch pocket, he said, "She was right about everything else." He switched off the light. "It's late. We'll decide in the morning."

Aziraphale smiled weakly. "I don't know how to be you, Crowley. You're—you're hip."

This surprised a laugh out of the demon. "The trousers do all the work. Just pretend you're me."

Sighing, Aziraphale said with some exasperation, "I could never be convincing as you."

"Then pretend that your life depends on it." He was deadly serious, and Aziraphale realized for the first time since they had begun this conversation that Crowley was not so unaffected as he put forth. "They won't expect this. Who would? I bet they'll be so busy giving us the heave, they won't notice if we're not quite ourselves." 

"But—"

"Come on, Aziraphale. We're going to bed."

If Crowley's intention was to shock him, that did it. "What?"

"We need to be ready for tomorrow. And that's where I do my best thinking."

"I, I—you know I don't—" Aziraphale stammered.

"Not to worry." He marched Aziraphale ahead of him down the long hall. "It's a big bed."

* * * 

Aziraphale sat primly upright against the headboard, a thick, delightfully soft pillow at his back. He had removed only his shoes and his jacket but felt as if he had stripped himself bare. Next to him, but several feet away—it truly was a big bed—Crowley lay, eyes closed, hands folded at the waist, stocking feet crossed at the ankle. He appeared to be sleeping.

"So what is your plan?" Aziraphale asked loudly.

Crowley turned his head slightly and opened one eye.

"I really should visit the bookshop," Aziraphale went on. "Oh, I hope it's still there."

"You will," Crowley replied, his voice calm and relaxed. "Only it'll be me. After we swap."

"If we swap. Why would you go—?"

"It would make no sense for _me_ to be there—as me, I mean. And we're probably being watched. Since this evening, I expect."

"Watched?" Aziraphale's eyes widened. "But then they'll see me leaving your flat in the morning."

Smiling slightly, Crowley opened his other eye and raised his brows.

"They'll think that we—that I—"

"They already do," Crowley reminded him.

"Yes, but—" Aziraphale groaned his frustration. He deliberately raised the pitch of his voice. "'Consorting with the enemy', Michael said." He slashed a look in Crowley's direction but did not meet his eyes. "Uriel called you my boyfriend."

"Did she."

"So unprofessional. So un—un-angelic."

Crowley chuckled. "A pity, really."

Aziraphale stared at him. "What is?"

A slow, speculative smile spread across Crowley's lips. "Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

It took a moment for Aziraphale to comprehend Crowley's meaning. Heat bloomed inside him, a flood of liquid warmth that gave his insides a strange turn. When he could trust his voice, he said smartly, "I am not your last meal, Crowley."

"As I said: pity."

Aziraphale searched for something to redirect the conversation, and because it was right there, like a thorn in his side, it came to him right away. "So, all those years ago, when you asked for holy water—"

Crowley twitched, all the humor gone from his face in an instant. "I wasn't planning to murder anyone," he snapped. "If that's what you were going to ask."

A cold silence fell between them. Aziraphale broke it after some minutes, saying with remembered dread, "I was afraid you meant to use it on yourself."

His voice very low, Crowley muttered, "Would've thought you knew me better than that."

This was something that apparently continued to sting, even a century later. Aziraphale proceeded with caution. "We haven't always spent so much time together. Whole decades have gone by when we haven't seen each other. How could I have guessed then what you meant to do—when I don't know now?"

Crowley set his teeth together and didn't speak.

"So," Aziraphale ventured delicately, "why did you want it?"

Crowley narrowed his eyes and regarded him expressionlessly. Aziraphale kept himself still and open, even when something of that earlier speculation entered Crowley's gaze and swept over him. "D'you know why I've worked so hard to stay up here?" He waved an idle hand round the room, indicating, Aziraphale believed, the wider world, as well.

"You like humans." He had always thought this. Whereas he was perfectly happy to spend his time with books, tolerating humans only as part of his guise as a bookseller, Crowley genuinely sought them out. He never seemed happier than in a crowd, he loved to join their parties—he even reveled in watching movies about them.

He snorted. "I loathe humans. But I love what they can do. What they're capable of. How they think. It's mostly wasted on them, that ability to think, to build, to create, to celebrate their firefly existences. In Hell," he sounded suddenly angry, "it's so much worse in Hell. 'You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy….'" He fell quiet. "That's why I wanted holy water, angel," he continued eventually. "Knew the day would come when Hell would find me out, and they'd come for me."

Aziraphale said softly, "Find you out?"

Crowley shrugged, a wry smile twisting his mouth. "Not exactly a secret—between you and me, anyway—that I'm a failure as a demon. It was always only a matter of time before something happened to give it all away."

"They think you betrayed them, not failed them." Aziraphale paused. "Come to think of it, isn't that an especially demonic thing, betrayal?"

"Yeah, so long as it isn't aimed at Hell."

"Well, you _wanted_ to start the Spanish Inquisition. And World War II. And you received commendations for all sorts. Surely intention counts," Aziraphale said kindly. "Perhaps all the demony things you do contribute to a greater whole. Look at you—just a short while ago you were attempting to seduce an angel."

Crowley's teeth glinted as he shot a grin Aziraphale's way. "He's in my bed, isn't he?"

"Not being seduced." Though his voice was stern, Aziraphale found himself grinning back at him. "You don't have any more of that very fine wine?"

"In the kitchen. The wine refrigerator is on the right at the end." He waggled his brows. "Unless you need me to …."

"I can find it. You?"

"Yep. Long night ahead of us."

"What's left of it." He had not meant to whine, but he could hear the note of despair in his own voice.

Crowley seemed to hear it, too. He got up. Boots appeared on his feet as he walked across the floor. "Let's have coffee, instead. Clear heads and all that."

"Right. We do still need to talk."

* * * 

In the end, they sipped hot, strong coffee fortified with brandy, and decided, after a few minutes more of conversation, to swap their bodies in the morning before going separate ways. Crowley fell asleep soon after, only a couple of hours before dawn. Aziraphale envied him that. Not so much his ability to sleep, but his ability to sleep when he was at risk of losing not only his life but his very existence. It never occurred to him that it was his presence that allowed the demon to do so.

He collected their mugs and took them to the kitchen. After rinsing them out and wiping the counter dry with a leaden hand, he went into the east-facing lounge. There, in the dark, he stood before the wide window and waited for what might be the last sunrise of his life.

And as he waited, he allowed his thoughts to wander where they might. If he was not honest with himself now, he might never have the chance again. And, of course, his thoughts went instantly to Crowley. Crowley, the demon he had loved nearly since the moment they met. He had come very close to confessing that seduction was all too often on his mind, too, entire fantasies entertained in those moments when his thoughts were otherwise disengaged. But Crowley had only been joking. He had seen Aziraphale's distress and chosen the most unlikely subject to distract him. It had worked, too. Not that Crowley didn't love him; he knew that he did. But his was the love of a very dear, very old friend. A lifelong companion. And, of course, that was all right, too.

He was still standing there, tinged a gentle amber by the first rays of the sun, when Crowley's footsteps sounded in the hall. He turned to greet him. "In case we don't survive—" he began, but Crowley interrupted him.

"None of that. Tell me what to expect. I've never changed bodies before. You were inside Madame Whatsit." He was fully dressed and his hair was tamed, ready for the day.

Aziraphale accepted what he was doing, once again diverting him. "It'll be easier without someone sharing. If—if we don't explode during the transfer, you'll just feel as if you've put on a new outfit."

Crowley looked down at him, smiled fleetingly, and held out his hand. His hand was steady, palm up, waiting. "It'll be all right, angel."

"You cannot possibly know that," Aziraphale whispered.

"I can," Crowley said, and took Aziraphale's hand in his. His grip was firm; he wasn't letting go. "There's a certain angel needs seducing, and I mean to be the one to do it."

Aziraphale felt himself dissolve inside. But he said, lightly, "Fool." Their eyes met. Crowley nodded once. Aziraphale nodded back. They used their will, their intention to push the essential core of themselves through and into each other. The process itself lasted scant seconds. And then Aziraphale was staring down into his own eyes. They were wide and grey and a little stunned. "Oh, my," Aziraphale breathed—in Crowley's voice.

One of the strangest aspects of this was having to look down to meet Crowley's eyes. He seemed to have a similar reaction in having to tip his head back or else risk looking flirtatious peering up through his eyelashes. "It worked," Crowley said, exultantly.

"Yes." Aziraphale withdrew his hand. His body, this body, was all long legs, long arms, and extraordinarily tight trousers. He just managed to keep his hand away from the crotch, wanting very much to ease the stress there. "However do you—?"

Crowley laughed. No, he actually cackled in Crowley's way, until he heard himself and put a hand to his mouth. "This is different." He let out a long, steadying breath. "Right. Well, then, better be off to the bookshop." He threw up his fingers, even though Aziraphale had said nothing. "I won't sell any books, Aziraphale, I promise."

Deciding that somehow he must match Crowley's spirit or give in to hysteria, Aziraphale said, in his very different voice, "Perhaps I'll take the Bentley out for a twirl."

"Spin. And don't you dare." Crowley carefully tempered his smile. "This _will_ work, Aziraphale—er, Crowley." He patted himself down, shoulders, lapels, waist, hips. He quirked an eyebrow at him that usually didn't bend that way. "Meet you at the park, later." With that, he turned round, staggered as his weight shifted unfamiliarly, then disappeared into the hallway.

"Good bye, Crowley," Aziraphale said, waving as the door closed behind the demon. He went into Crowley's bathroom to study himself in the mirror. As an angel, he had seen many things, miraculous, amazing things, but none more astonishing than this. He tentatively ran a finger down his sculpted cheek, the smooth line of his jaw, and outrageously even over the curve of his lips. It felt wrong. He smiled at himself, and it was his smile, not Crowley's usual smirk, that was reflected in the glass. "You are a very handsome man," he said. His eye caught the red strip in the collar of Crowley's jacket and he tapped it with a fingertip. There: just a small weave of tartan. "That's better," Aziraphale said. His image held him for a moment longer. This was a soft Crowley, one readily given to smiles, not a cool Crowley, but a rather silly one. Aziraphale wanted to howl. Surely, no one could possibly be deceived. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let his bones go loose. And then he spent the next half hour trying to walk in Crowley's incredibly snug trousers.

* * * 

"Get him up!"

Aziraphale regained consciousness in Hell. Clawed hands gripped his upper arms and jerked him to his feet. With panic erupting under his breastbone he began to resist before remembering where he was and why. And then he allowed himself to be half-dragged and half-marched down a dark, dank corridor until he could regain control of his—Crowley's—limbs.

There was a mock trial, the very real nightmare of being surrounded by demons and worse, and throughout Aziraphale clung to an internal mantra: _What would Crowley do?_ He made no effort now to mimic him physically. What was the point? It was obvious that everyone here believed him to be Crowley. In fact, once he stood in the specially built place of reckoning, in front of that ghastly kangaroo court, he became a little reckless. Unfunny jokes spilled out (Crowley could get away with that, though his jokes would have been hipper and possibly even funny). When Michael appeared, not only did he openly name her—would Crowley have done so?—he didn't even try to hide his amazement at her being there.

It was probably a bit uncharacteristic of Crowley to insist on removing his things prior to being dunked in holy water. The impulse was his, for he could not imagine subjecting his own apparel to such mistreatment. But how to explain requesting a rubber duck? Or demanding a towel from Michael? It had to be a kind of madness, born of unspeakable terror. He would never otherwise have believed himself capable of such inanity.

He was just thankful that Crowley did, in fact, wear something underneath his skintight clothing. And that Beelzebub was so untrusting, though he did feel a tiny pang of sympathy for the luckless abomination whose destruction had proven that Michael's holy water was indeed lethal to demons. After that, there could be no doubt that Crowley should have died in that sacrificial bathtub. And would have, if they hadn't followed Agnes's advice.

And, then, shockingly, it was over. Beelzebub ordered him removed to the surface, and relief rushed up inside him so strongly it was a wonder he did not faint. Rather, working hard at keeping up the pretense, he dressed casually and even complained a little at being chivvied along. But when, at last, he was deposited at the foot of the escalator, he fought the very real threat of being physically ill and was driven to clinging to the moving rail, one hand against his chest, scarcely able to believe the ordeal was nearly over.

Real relief flared dizzingly when he met Crowley stepping off the escalator from Heaven. They said nothing to each other, but walked out of the headquarters building together. Down the pavement, across the road, to the park, and blessedly an unoccupied park bench, where they were able to sit, side by side. And, finally, they changed back. Aziraphale relaxed into his body as if it was the most welcoming of old, soft, warm clothes. He succeeded in making a joke of his experiences, even producing realistic, if slightly frayed laughter. Crowley's guffaws soothed him as nothing else could. 

And now, here they were, leaving the Ritz, and Aziraphale's temporary state of bliss (fueled by too many sweets and too much champagne and Crowley's company) had been shattered by Crowley's description of what had happened to him in Heaven. He had always known that Gabriel could be a self-righteous prig, but what he had tried to do to Crowley—to him!—was unconscionable.

Navigating the steps down to the pavement, Aziraphale fumed, "Hell at least gave you a trial." He smarted at the injustice of it. "Obviously with a predetermined outcome, of course. But to give you—me—no chance to defend myself!" Crowley's sidelong look was attentive, sympathetic, but contained a shadow of that pity from the day before. Aziraphale turned away. "How could Heaven and Hell both be so awful?"

Crowley jammed his fingers into his pockets with more than his usual force. Knowing firsthand how hard it was to do that gave Aziraphale a new appreciation for Crowley's sartorial choices. He shrugged—and it touched Aziraphale in a strangely indefinable way to remember what that had felt like, the shifting of fabric, the roll of muscle and flesh, from the inside. Crowley said, "Don't take it too much to heart, angel. You've seen what God has done, or allowed to be done, through the ages. Why should her people be any less—?" he hesitated, his next words, unless he was very careful, approaching blasphemy. Aziraphale heard, unsaid, _"...that's more the kind of thing you'd expect my lot to do."_

Aziraphale respected his caution, but his pique was still simmering. "Indifferent? Uncaring? Cruel?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Crowley said, with a short laugh, "but also, generous, kind, and tolerant." He shrugged again. "Look at us."

All the misery went out of him. Crowley was right. Whether they owed their existence to the Lord or to Agnes's prophecy, their continued existence, their freedom, was, ultimately, wholly up to her. He said, heartfelt, "But it's you I owe my life to. Yet again. I really didn't want to believe …."

"So you get to buy lunch next time." They stopped on the pavement behind one of the short pillars that framed the stone steps, out of the way of foot traffic.

"Lunch doesn't begin to cover it," Aziraphale said. "Something far more grand." He glanced at Crowley, who was gazing down at him with obvious affection. "Though—" He felt suddenly giddy. "I should probably draw the line at … what you were … joking about before." His color was heightening, which drew even closer scrutiny.

"What I was joking about before?" echoed Crowley interestedly.

Aziraphale wove his fingers more tightly together. It occurred to him that he had left himself terribly exposed. What on earth was he thinking?

"You thought I was joking?" Crowley's voice was like velvet.

People were striding by, and they had drawn the attention of the two doormen. "Well, of course." Aziraphale had to clear his throat. "Weren't you?"

Crowley took his elbow and herded him along the pavement. "Guess we'll have to wait and see," he said at last, his lips close enough to Aziraphale's ear to raise a shiver down his spine.

"Oh?" It was the most not-inane thing he could come up with. He wanted to continue the conversation—the flirtation!—but they had come to the lights at the end of the street. From here, Aziraphale realized, he could easily walk to his shop and Crowley could return to his flat. The light of the day was waning, as pale as the leaves in the road. Had he really been in Hell this morning? The park? The Ritz? Even for an angel the day had been exhausting. But he said, "So, tomorrow, then?"

Crowley shook his head. "Another day. I'm going to take the car for a twirl."

"Ah." Aziraphale covered his disappointment with a quick smile. "Well, I hope the weather continues pleasant."

"You could come with me," Crowley said casually.

"I—" He could not honestly say that he wanted to go for a drive. But he didn't want to give up Crowley's company. He had become dangerously dependent on him, and, flirtation or no, he realized that it was time for things to return to normal. Normal, as it had been before the approaching end of days; normal, as it had been before he and Crowley had begun to live in each other's pocket. So, he said, a little apologetically, "I—I really ought to see to the shop." There would certainly be time for them later.

Crowley let his hand fall away from his arm. Aziraphale had been enjoying its weight there, and now felt its absence keenly. "Right, then," he said. "See you, angel." And, all too quickly, he swaggered off, flicking his fingers in a little wave over his shoulder.

Aziraphale felt abandoned. He knew he was being ridiculous and unfair. But along with abandoned, he felt vulnerable. In all his years, he had never known such a sense of fragility. Which was ridiculous. He wasn't the least bit fragile—or abandoned, for that matter. Someone brushed against him, and he flinched. It was only a fellow pavement walker, crowding toward the crossing. The green man was lit. He stepped into the road, and headed home. It was time to pull himself together. And then perhaps he could sort out what was going on in his head.

* * * 

From the outside, his bookshop appeared unchanged. The lettering on the wall was still slightly faded, the signage posted on the door as he had left it. Inside, too, the interior remained the same. His collection, however, was significantly altered.

Throughout the remainder of that day and well into the following morning, Aziraphale roamed his stacks, reading the spines of the books, frowning or marveling at titles missing, titles added. The overall worth was probably no different, but he was miffed to see what he considered arbitrary removals. The mercenary in him was ecstatic at some of the new first edition acquisitions; but, the traditionalist in him was deeply offended. He had spent centuries building his collection and he could not help feeling as if it had been ransacked overnight. At one point, he stood in the middle of the shop, pivoted slowly on his heel, and simply glowered his displeasure.

He should be grateful, and of course he was. He had not witnessed everything—everything!—go up in flames. And Adam's restarting of the world had kindly included his bookshop when it had not needed to. Perhaps he was a little critical; but, yes, he was also deeply grateful. So why was he so unhappy? So dissatisfied?

In the earliest hours of morning it struck him that perhaps it wasn't the collection.

As he sought comfort in a mug of chocolate, his thoughts circled back, again and again, not to the state of the bookshop, but to Crowley, and, oddly enough, time itself. As a measure for them, time had only ever manifested itself in humanity. Crowley and he might adopt their manner of dress, where and how they lived, and what they ate and drank, but none of that could affect what they were. He and Crowley were immortal beings. They lived alongside humans, not with them.

Until yesterday, it had never occurred to him that _their_ time might run out. The reality that every human faced daily was simply not part of their experience. He and Crowley might spend years, decades, apart, but Aziraphale had always known that the demon was still in and of his world, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. Yesterday, that could have changed. 

He understood suddenly that the fragility, the vulnerability he had felt the day before—was feeling still—was what he would experience without Crowley. It scalded him to admit it, but his loss would devastate him. The bookshop, his belongings, his love of the world and its creations, all of that would offer scant joy without him.

The normality of their lives before they had joined forces against the end times no longer existed. Whether there was a—could he even think it?—a physical relationship in their future, what mattered was that he wanted Crowley in his life. Daily. Perhaps hourly.

Maybe Adam had changed him, too.

* * * 

In the last minutes before dawn, Aziraphale busied himself with tidying his crockery, giving himself a sprucing, and considering with anticipation the day ahead. He waited until the sun was climbing through the morning mist, a bit after eight, before dialing Crowley's number. He held the handset tightly clenched and close to his ear, absently counting the rings. There was no answer.

Aziraphale stood very still for a moment, disappointment settling over him like a cloud of coal dust. He set the handset in its hooks—and startled as the phone's bell sounded. "Hello?"

"Aziraphale?"

"Crowley! I just rang, but you didn't answer."

"Dropped my phone. Something up?"

"I—I suppose it's too late to accept your offer?"

"Just pulled up outside your door," Crowley replied. "Ready to go?"

Emotion welled up inside him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. He did not immediately speak, and when he did, Crowley was already saying, "Angel?"

"Five minutes," Aziraphale managed.

Crowley said, "Bring snacks. Long drive ahead." The line went dead.

Aziraphale let out a sharp breath. And then he burst into motion. He dashed into the kitchenette, dug out an empty tin and fetched a packet of fruit shorties from the cupboard. When the tin was full, he popped a fruit shortie into his mouth, folded shut the packet to seal the remaining biscuits and fitted the lid onto the tin. He swept the room with a glance, snatched up the tin, and, chewing hurriedly, rushed out of the bookshop.

Crowley stood lounging against the Bentley, arms folded across his chest, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might come too close to the paint. It made for some near misses in the middle of the road, as his car was given extra clearance by every passing vehicle. He let his arms drop as Aziraphale bounded down the steps to the pavement. "Is that everything?"

"Just some biscuits." Aziraphale let a car pass by before opening the passenger door. He quickly loaded the tin onto the floor of the backseat before climbing into the passenger seat. "But we will be stopping for lunch?"

"And breakfast."

"Where exactly are we going?" Aziraphale placed his hands on his knees as the engine roared to life. He closed his eyes as Crowley bullied the car into traffic, and reminded himself that he wanted to be here.

"Caerleon," Crowley said.

"In Wales?" Aziraphale was surprised. "I haven't been there in more than," he thought about it, "a thousand years." 

"Probably not like you remember it."

"No?" Aziraphale could tell that Crowley's attention was split between their conversation and his driving of the car.

"Everything changes, angel."

"Except us," Aziraphale said with assurance.

Crowley turned his head toward him. "Even us."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale agreed, though the idea made him a little uneasy. "I suppose we do. Your hair, for example. My cologne."

With a small frown, Crowley said, "We're free to live our lives now. That's change."

"You said," Aziraphale corrected him, "that they would leave us alone 'for a bit.'"

Crowley hitched one shoulder. "If we're lucky, it might be permanent."

"That would be very lucky." He noticed that Crowley had canted his head toward the front of the car, as if listening. "Something wrong?"

Crowley's smile was brilliant. "Something right. Adam upped the engine's horsepower. Watch." He pushed down hard on the accelerator and the car leaped forward, almost climbing up the back end of the delivery lorry in front of them. Aziraphale yelped. Crowley gauged the traffic and yanked the Bentley around the other vehicle. Horns sounded, which Crowley ignored, and then they were properly in their lane again.

"Wasn't it fast enough before?" Aziraphale asked, breathless beneath the pounding of his heart.

"It was. But that was my doing. This is even better!"

It was Monday morning and the traffic was thick. Crowley picked his way through the other cars, not seeming to mind their sluggish pace as he focused on how the Bentley responded to his every demand. Soon they were on the M40 heading west, and they were traveling at speed. It might have appeared that Aziraphale was sleeping, given the amount of time his eyes were closed. But his feet were pressed flat to the floor and one hand was digging finger impressions into the roof liner.

Breakfast turned out to be a quick stop at a fast food restaurant. They used the brief halt to stretch their legs and rest their eyes on the greensward that edged the restaurant property. Back on the road, Aziraphale pointed out that Crowley's music was no longer playing Queen. "Yeah," Crowley said, "I noticed that on the way to the bookshop."

"Well, that's another new thing," Aziraphale commented. Crowley flicked a brow upward, but he didn't seem concerned. A thought occurred to Aziraphale. "Why are we going to Caerleon?"

"I liked it there."

"I don't remember that."

Crowley tipped his head. "Was just a short while. Helped educate the locals."

"When?"

He thought about it. "Yonks. Not long after the Celts made it over from Europe."

"And what did you do?" Aziraphale asked. "Show them how to be warlike?"

Crowley grinned. "I taught them how to use the color blue. Being warlike followed pretty naturally."

Aziraphale snorted. "Oddly enough there is a new history of the Celts in my collection. Among many other new titles."

"You don't sound happy about it," Crowley observed.

"No. It's … fine." He felt Crowley's eyes questioning him and insisted, "It's fine. Really. They have likely added to its overall value."

"Change," Crowley said softly.

"Yes." Aziraphale studied his hands, clasped loosely together in his lap. He must sound churlish. Bringing up a smile, he said, "But let me tell you about what I have found." He launched into an entertaining description of children's books, culinary guides, and home repair manuals, along with several dubious history books, including the one about the Celts. When Crowley asked him what had gone missing, he couldn't completely conceal his feelings, mentioning a few particularly older and more precious religious texts. "It's possible they were just moved. Maybe I'll find them."

In Caerleon, they lunched at a restaurant attached to an artists' enclave; Aziraphale paid. After a quick wander round the carved wood pieces and pottery, they went to the grounds of the Roman amphitheater.

"I think I like it better this way," Aziraphale said, strolling beside Crowley. A brisk breeze was raking over the lawns discouraging tourists from lingering.

"Were you with the army?"

"Hm. It was not long before they buggered off back to Rome. I helped out for a short time with the medical staff."

Crowley made an unpleasant noise. "That must have been gruesome."

"Very. I did what I could. What I was allowed to do. But, yes, the mortality—" he nodded to himself. Even after all this time certain memories seemed never to diminish. Roman gladiatorial and beast games had enthralled the masses, but had never ceased to appall him. He glanced across at Crowley who was gazing down at him. "Were you serious?"

"About?"

Pretending to study one of the small niches, which had held animals until they were released into the arena, he said, "About … what you were joking about."

Crowley looked away, too. "I could be."

"Ah."

They continued to walk, peering into tiny stone chambers and down along the passageways that led from the arena floor. Aziraphale was puzzling over Crowley's statement, unsure whether he should be insulted or reassured, when Crowley said, "I—" He paused. "I wasn't joking, angel."

"Oh." Aziraphale shot a quick, bright smile his way. "Good." Heart pounding, he concentrated on not falling over his own feet.

They fell quiet on the drive back to London, Aziraphale too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice that Crowley was deep in thought as well. He was absently watching the planes flying into and out of Heathrow, when he said aloud, "So, if we were to have sex— Crowley!" He braced himself against the door as the car swerved.

The Bentley glided fully back onto the road. "A little warning next time," Crowley growled.

After a moment of quiet, the only sound that of the traffic around them and the purr of the car's engine, Aziraphale said, slowly, "So, if we were to have sex—"

Crowley's fingers were doing a scale run on the steering wheel. "Yes?" He was still growling. Aziraphale noted the vein in his neck was slightly distended and he could see it throb.

"Well, this may sound a little missish, but would you—?" He wavered, looking, unseeing, out the window at a jumbo jet soaring toward London, climbing higher with each passing second.

"Go on." There was a soft grating sound. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was grinding his teeth.

"If we did that—" His hands were caught together in a knot in his lap, one wrapped around the other. His heart was in his throat, and he had to cough slightly to allow room for speech. "Would you think differently of me?"

Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale managed just to meet his eyes before pointing a finger toward the road ahead of them. Crowley ignored him. "Why should I think differently of you?" He sounded honestly perplexed and a little uneasy.

Aziraphale raised his chin. "It's a common theme. Isn't it?"

"Theme." At last Crowley returned his attention to the road. Aziraphale felt as if a small weight had lifted from his chest.

"You know. In books. In history. In life." In saying it out loud, it sounded even more insipid than it had in his head. But when he had thought about them together, he could not imagine that they mustn't feel differently toward each other, mustn't see each other differently. Mustn't they?

Crowley slumped a little and made a small sound that might have been a laugh. "You're worried about being seduced and abandoned?"

Aziraphale stiffened. His hands tightened. "That's succinct."

For a moment all was silence. Then he said, almost gently, "Life is full of risks."

Cringing inside, Aziraphale murmured, "Very true."

The plane had disappeared into the clouds. The day was fading; it would be dark before they reached the bookshop.

"But I— Well, I think— It would be—" Crowley half-groaned, half-whined. "We don't really have to talk about this, do we?"

Aziraphale gave him a wounded look.

Crowley made that same, strange mix of noises again. "Right now. We don't have to talk about this right now."

The demon's discomfort told him more, perhaps, than he could have articulated anyway. Aziraphale hid a tiny smile. "Of course not. I was … just wondering."

Another mile or two passed beneath their wheels before Crowley said, "So, you are thinking about it."

It was a silly thing to say, as it was obvious that Aziraphale wasn't just thinking about it, he was actively obsessing over it. But all he said was, "I could be."

Crowley laughed.

* * * 

They arrived back at the bookshop well after night had fallen. Aziraphale collected the tin of biscuits, slightly depleted from their brief stop to avoid the evening congestion, from the back seat. As he walked round the front of the car, he said, "Coffee?"

"Not for me, thanks," Crowley replied. But he stepped out of the car, and came alongside Aziraphale as he mounted the steps to the door of the shop. "Think I'll head home." He slipped the tin from beneath Aziraphale's arm and held it while Aziraphale negotiated the lock two-handed. The door swung open and Aziraphale reached for the tin.

Crowley caught his hand with his free one and held it. Frozen, Aziraphale raised his eyes and watched, entranced, as Crowley brought his hand to his mouth. He applied the softest brush of his lips to Aziraphale's fingers, making his entire body tingle. And then he straightened up, offered the tin back to him, a pleased smirk drawing his mouth wide.

"You devil," Aziraphale said, under his breath.

Crowley's chuckle was carried back to him on the breeze. Only after the Bentley's red lights had vanished amid a sea of red lights did Aziraphale step into the bookshop.

* * * 

Very early the following morning, he came down the stairs from his first floor apartment, yawning widely enough to make his jaws crack. Although he rarely slept, he did enjoy a lie-down now and then, and the narrow bed he kept there was perfectly suitable for that purpose. He paused on the penultimate step, head tilted as he tested the air. There was, unless he was greatly mistaken, freshly brewed tea and—he thought about it—fresh bread, as well.

In his back room he found Crowley ensconced on the sofa, staring fixedly down at his phone and sweeping his thumb across its screen.

"Good morning," Aziraphale said. "This is a bit early for you." He waited for a second for Crowley to look up, but the demon paused long enough to poke a finger in the direction of Aziraphale's desk. "Tea should be ready. And there's croissants and crumpets."

His attention fixed on Crowley, Aziraphale had not yet followed his nose to the crisp white paper bag in the middle of the disarray on his desk. Next to it was a teapot giving off steam and his mug.

When he turned back, Crowley was on his feet and standing right in front of him. Aziraphale began, "Well, I—"

Crowley kissed him. 

It was no more than the gentlest and briefest pressure of mouth against mouth, but Aziraphale was instantly shot through with a shock of yearning. Crowley raised his head. Something in his stance, in his too still expression, told Aziraphale that he had been similarly affected. Crowley swallowed and stepped back. "Lunch later?"

Aziraphale nodded, finding his voice with some difficulty. "Love to."

Crowley was staring at his mouth. He turned suddenly and marched out of the room. Aziraphale did not follow, nor did he move until he heard the bell over the door tinkle and the lock latch. He touched a fingertip to his lips and closed his eyes.

And, so the seduction of the angel Aziraphale began.

* * * 

Over the next couple of weeks, Aziraphale discovered what it was to be courted. Some mornings there were fresh-cut flowers in a vase on his desk; others, breakfast; or, occasionally, a fancy coffee from one of the nearby shops. There were days when they met at the park to wander among the huge old trees or to feed the ducks. The first time Crowley took his hand and laced their fingers together, Aziraphale was more than a little taken aback. They had always been close physically, but they had rarely actually touched. Sitting together on a park bench or in the narrow cabin of the Bentley, they often brushed against each other's arm or shoulder, or a knee against a thigh. But it had all been unremarkable. This—this was remarkable. And perfect. That's how Aziraphale's hand felt wrapped in Crowley's—exactly right.

Days passed before Crowley kissed him again. At first Aziraphale was nervous. His experience of kisses was quite limited, even for a being of his longevity. Babies, of course, given with a small blessing. The elderly, upon their deathbeds. But never with carnal intent. And although Crowley's kiss was chaste, Aziraphale's body reacted with a stunningly physical awakening.

They were sharing a glass of wine in Aziraphale's back room, not long after they had returned from dinner. They sat facing each other, Crowley propped on the sofa back, Aziraphale relaxed in his chair. They had been chatting about nothing and everything, their conversation no different than many conversations they had had through the centuries. Aziraphale was sipping his wine when Crowley stood up and stretched, muttering something about the time. He placed his glass on the desk and, before he could object, winkled Aziraphale's still half full glass from his grasp and placed it on the desk next to his empty one. 

Aziraphale looked up as Crowley bent forward and took both of his hands in his. He drew Aziraphale out of the chair, leaving no space between them. His palms came up and loosely cradled his head, his thumbs as light as moths against the corners of his mouth. He kissed him, and this time their mouths met fully.

Crowley's lips were parted, just a little, and he made a low, murmuring sound of appreciation as he fitted their mouths more closely together. A surge of sensation rose up in Aziraphale and he pressed closer, a small part of him shocked at his audacity, a larger part of him determined to seek more. It lasted only a moment, not even that, before Crowley drew back. Aziraphale's inclination was to follow, but he caught himself at the last second. He opened his eyes and stared, bemused, into Crowley's face. Something in his expression made Crowley inhale sharply, and he released him as he took another abrupt step away. Ruefully shaking his head, he said, "Good night, angel." And then he was gone, and the bell over the door signaled his departure.

Aziraphale let his hands, suspended mid-air, fall to his sides. Floating still on that indefinable sensation, shivering with cold and prickling with heat, he smiled slowly, determinedly to himself. There would be more of that. Much, much more And, thanks to Adam, they had all the time in the world.

* * * 

The missing texts were gone forever. Aziraphale spent days scouring his stacks, building small mountains of books that were not part of his original collection. He stewed about it as the mountains grew higher, even while he did find a few items that surprised and pleased him. In the end, there was now a complete picture in his mind of everything in the bookshop. He regretted the titles that had not survived Adam's rebuilding of the shop, but allowed himself to grieve—or so he told himself—only for a few days. It was not in his nature to be downcast, and he could hardly complain when, before Adam's intervention, all of the texts had been lost.

In order to make the best of things, but also to assuage his temper, he cleared a bookcase and put the new volumes up at reduced prices. Crowley helped. Once those books were out of the shop, he would be happier.

The day came, however, when he overheard a customer, who had just purchased a couple of the sales items, bragging to a friend about what a great deal he had gotten, and how he would sell them "on line" at a vastly marked-up price.

Later, at dinner in a local restaurant, Aziraphale recounted the insult. Crowley's eyes grew very yellow behind their dark lenses. He reached across the table and touched Aziraphale's hand. He said, "I'll take care of it, angel."

A little alarmed—but very pleased at the easy way Crowley touched him now—Aziraphale said, "You don't mean to harm him?"

Crowley raised his brows and grinned. "No. Hadn't even considered it. I could permanently remove his eyebrows. Would that do?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Not necessary. But thank you for the thought." He raised Crowley's hand to his lips and kissed it. At that moment, their dinner was served, and he reluctantly let go. As he started to fork up his pasta, he asked, "But you must know: what is E Bay?"

Shaking his head, Crowley finished chewing before answering, "It's a virtual shop, angel. Not to be confused with 'virtuous,'" he added, having seen the consternation in Aziraphale's face. "You know there is an internet."

"Of course I know there is an internet," Aziraphale said. "It's how people share cat pictures and rude photos."

"Very true. But people set up—" His brow furrowed as he considered how to explain. "Pretend shops. All the stuff they sell is actually right inside their home. Well, for most of them." Aziraphale's scowl seemed to make him rethink his explanation. "Anyway, it's a new way for people to sell things."

Aziraphale returned his attention to his meal, though his brow was still furrowed.

Crowley reached out and took his hand again. "I can fix it," he said. "If you'll let me."

"You won't—?"

"No, no. I'll help you properly price your sales items."

"Really? How?"

Crowley set his phone on the table between them. "With this."

"Your phone?"

In a confiding whisper, he said, "It knows how to use the internet."

Aziraphale pulled his hand away. "You're making fun of me." He wasn't angry. He needed his hand to cut his tenderloin medallion.

"It's true." At Aziraphale's arch look, he went on, "Not about making fun of you. The phone. It's like a tiny computer. You'll see."

"All right," Aziraphale said, with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

Crowley gazed at him for a long moment. Then he raised his glass and Aziraphale brought his own against it in a chiming toast. "You're welcome," Crowley said, his eyes glowing.

* * * 

Aziraphale came down from his apartment to find freshly baked doughnuts and a richly flavored, very hot coffee in a paper beaker waiting for him. He also found Crowley at the front of the shop, phone in hand, a pencil behind one ear. Aziraphale took the plate of doughnuts and the coffee with him and set the plate on a small table a few feet away. With a look of concentration on his face, Crowley gave him a quick good morning, but remained focused on his task. Aziraphale touched his arm. When Crowley looked round, Aziraphale rose up a little on his toes to kiss him. The kiss developed into something more than a simple greeting—up to the point that Crowley's free hand went to Aziraphale's hip and slid beneath his jacket. Aziraphale drew away, and Crowley let him go.

It had occurred to Aziraphale some while ago that Crowley was letting him set their pace. He was grateful for that, as there were some aspects of a physical relationship which—while not really alarming—did give him pause. So far, they had not moved past holding hands and kissing, though their kisses had become much more intimate—and stirring—of late.

"Doughnut?" he asked, as he nonchalantly glanced across at the phone in Crowley's hand. On the tiny screen there was a picture of a book—the real one was half withdrawn from the bookcase in front of them—and a listing of prices. "Goodness," Aziraphale said, leaning closer and squinting. He had not yet put on his glasses and found the minuscule text difficult to make out. "What was I asking for that title?"

"A lot less. I've been changing the prices as I go. Almost done. Then I'll show you the overall difference."

"Is it a lot?"

"Four figures worth."

"What?" Aziraphale exclaimed. He sighed. "And your little device, your little phone told you all that?"

Crowley's look was tolerant. "Just a tool, angel. It's how you use it."

"I see. Perhaps, I should—" He gave his head a shake. "No." He reached for a doughnut.

"Never too late to learn. I can teach you."

"Maybe some day. Hm. These are lovely. Here, have a bite." He raised the doughnut to Crowley's mouth, his other hand held underneath to catch crumbs. Crowley obediently took a small bite and began to chew. Aziraphale watched his mouth. Crowley grunted, swallowed, and swooped nearer for another kiss. Aziraphale melted beneath it. He loved Crowley's mouth and the way their lips fit together.

A little lightheaded, he stepped away. "Right. I'll leave you to it."

"Probably a good idea," Crowley said in a dark undertone.

Aziraphale picked up his coffee and went to the back room. There he switched on the power for his ancient computer. While the machine laboriously came to life, he finished his doughnut, then sucked his fingers clean of chocolate icing. After wiping them dry on his handkerchief, he set to work.

When he had first started the search for the lost volumes, he had scrupulously compared the inventory in his computer to the one in his memory. Soon he had found that they no longer matched. The inventory in his computer catalogued only the volumes and texts now on his shelves—not his original collection. The discrepancy had filled him with dismay and he'd had to resist thinking ill of the boy who had been responsible.

But there had been recent sales, and he was overdue for updating the inventory. The task was not demanding, and his mind filled the empty spaces with thoughts of Crowley working away on his behalf in the other room. He identified the scrape of the demon's shoe against the wood floor, the shush of a book as it was reslotted on the shelf, the murmurings as Crowley talked to himself. Or talked to his phone. Aziraphale had seen him doing that one day, years ago. Apparently he could simply speak to it and the phone would type out his words, which he could then save in a tiny phone … document. He called the stored information documents. Crowley loved his phone. His tiny computer.

It occurred to Aziraphale, as his fingers jolted against the keys of the very old and noisy keyboard, that Crowley had used his phone a great deal recently. Just yesterday, while Aziraphale had been searching his inventory with no better results than before, Crowley had sat on the sofa, phone in hand, his head bent over it. His thumb seemed to move ceaselessly. He called it swiping between pages, or screens, and he was, he said, browsing the web. Aziraphale could not be bothered to know whether the web had anything to do with the internet. Much of the language of today was every bit as arcane as the specialized terminology that he used in the study of his texts. Nor did he ask Crowley what he was "browsing." If it was important, Crowley would tell him.

When, a few hours later, Crowley interrupted his work to show him the difference between his original pricing and Crowley's newly recommended numbers, Aziraphale was aghast. "That much!"

"Hm hm."

"My goodness. I am in your debt." He smiled up at Crowley. "Shall we go to lunch?"

Crowley appeared genuinely regretful. "Can't. In fact, if I don't leave now, I'll be late."

"Oh." Aziraphale raised his brows, but there was no further information forthcoming. Crowley fidgeted briefly before placing both hands flat on the surface of the desk and leaning close. "Will tomorrow do?" he asked, his breath warm on Aziraphale's cheek.

"Yes." Their mouths met in a slow kiss. When Crowley pulled away, their lips parted with a soft sound. Crowley paused, just long enough to skim a finger down Aziraphale's cheek.

"See you, angel," he said. As he walked away, he reminded, "Almost time to open the shop. Good luck with your sales."

The bell tinged as Crowley went out onto the steps. Through the windows Aziraphale tracked his passage down the pavement to his car. Curious, he went over to the sales bookcase. He picked out a couple of books at random. Crowley had taken pains to neatly erase the old prices and enter their replacements with a very light touch. Shaking his head to himself, he edged the books into a straight line, stepped back and looked around with satisfaction. And then he tugged his vest into place, squared his bow tie, and went to the door to greet his customers for afternoon hours.

* * * 

Aziraphale, blissfully unaware of the phenomenon of social media, did not know why his bookshop became a hive of customer activity the rest of that day. Shoppers came in, went straight to the bookcase of marked-down books, and explored the offerings. So many made purchases that queues formed at the register desk. Aziraphale assured himself this was a good thing, despite being flustered with so many people making demands. When, at last he put up the closed sign, he was on the verge of nervous strain. As an angel, he was supposed to foster goodness among humans. That many, all at once, for several hours in a row, tested his ethereal capacity for grace. He was glad they were gone.

His till, however, was alarmingly full. He spent a few minutes totting up the day's takings, separating out a certain amount as he did so for the next day's till. The rest he stashed inside a small paper sack. Later he would take it upstairs for safekeeping.

All the while he kept an ear cocked for the sound of Crowley's return. By ten o'clock he had given up, wondering what had kept him away all day. They had never lived so much in each other's company before, and Aziraphale realized that he should not expect, nor would he want, really, to do that now. So he occupied himself for a while with the new mountain of books to remove from his collection. There was nothing here that was valueless; everything was either out of print or unique in itself. He had to thank Adam, at least, for that. Another round of pricing lay ahead of him. While he did not relish the prospect of crowds clamoring for his books, he had quite enjoyed taking their money.

In any case, he could not ask Crowley to continue to serve as his assistant. But he would ask him for recommendations for properly pricing the shop's expendable stock himself—though he sincerely hoped it would not involve his having to use something like Crowley's phone. Setting the last armful of books on the floor next to the triple stack he had already gathered, Aziraphale gauged their total number. With a needless glance at the bookcase reserved for markdowns—he knew quite well how many he had sold today—he decided he was done culling for the night.

Some while later, as he retired upstairs with a mug of cocoa in one hand, a small plate of biscuits in the other, and a book clenched under his arm, he decided he was more than ready to settle down for the remainder of the night. And if there was a tiny niggle of distress, which he knew had to do with Crowley, he refused to give it unnecessary attention. He had no doubt that he would see him again soon.

* * *

The following morning was shrouded by grey, drippy clouds hanging low over the city. Aziraphale came down carrying last night's crockery and his book. On the last step, he raised his head and sniffed, a new habit for him. Unless he was mistaken, there was a fresh pot of tea awaiting him. No fresh baked goods, however, or so his nose suggested.

Crowley was sitting tailor-fashion next to the new stacks of books, phone in hand, head bent over the screen, pencil caught between his teeth. Without looking up, he tongued the pencil to the side of his mouth and said, "Have yourself a cuppa, angel. Almost through here. Breakfast?"

Aziraphale was assailed with a sudden, almost overwhelming combination of affection, love, and, shockingly, desire. The latter was still very new to him, never having experienced it before Crowley had kissed him that first time. Because he was slow in replying, Crowley raised his head to peer up at him. Aziraphale smiled. He cleared his throat to make certain that his voice would not crack. "Thank you," he said, and it still came out husky and deep. "And, yes."

Grinning—a glint of understanding in his eyes?—Crowley turned back to what he was doing.

"Do you want—? Oh, you have a cup."

In his kitchenette, Aziraphale poured himself a mug, added sugar and milk, and took his first sip of the day. He let his eyes close. The first cup of tea was always the best of the day. From inside the bookshop, Crowley called, "Looks like your sales went well."

"Thanks to you, yes." Aziraphale walked back to where Crowley was working. "And what have you been up to?" he asked offhandedly.

"Yesterday? Oh, this and that." He finished the last book and set it on the top of the nearest pile. Hooking the empty mug with a finger, he unfolded his legs and stood up all in one smooth motion. "And I might have to do it again today. But not till later, I hope. What do you say about dinner?"

Sipping his tea, Aziraphale gave him a long look over the rim of his mug. "I'll take what I can get." He raised his brows, his eyes saying much more.

"I like the sound of that," Crowley purred. He kissed Aziraphale with gentle thoroughness. 

At breakfast, in a small nearby cafe, Aziraphale described the mayhem in the shop the previous day. "I finally had to shoo everyone out and lock the doors."

"It'll probably happen again today," Crowley said sagely.

Aziraphale shook his head wonderingly. "What on earth did you do? All those people. It was because of you."

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Crowley said, "I just put out the word. _Big Sale at AZ Fell's in Soho!"_

"How?"

Crowley patted the inside jacket pocket where he kept his phone. 

"Really?" Aziraphale was agog. "You can do that on your phone, too?"

Laughing, Crowley slid his fork into a piece of sausage on Aziraphale's plate. He had ordered toast; Aziraphale had chosen the full English, and Crowley had been impudently picking at his plate since its delivery. "It talks to satellites in space, angel." He started to reel off the services that his phone could provide.

Aziraphale just stared at him. "All that," he remarked at last. "That's just mad."

"It is, kinda," Crowley agreed. His expression was tender, and Aziraphale felt that curl of heat rise up inside him again.

Crowley's phone rattled inside his pocket. "Bless it!" he muttered. He took a glance at the screen, held up a finger, and walked outside, speaking quietly as he went. Aziraphale focused on his meal, suspecting that he was going to be finishing it alone.

"Sorry, Aziraphale," Crowley said a couple of moments later, and he really did look unhappy—but there was also a strange excitement about him that Aziraphale—only because he knew him so well—could detect. He reached for his wallet. Aziraphale put his hand over his and shook his head. "I'll get it. Thanks to you, I've had a bit of a windfall." He smiled and hoped that it looked more genuine than it felt.

"All right." Crowley leaned over and kissed him. At first Aziraphale was disconcerted. The generation he had adopted as his own would not have condoned such public behavior. But Crowley's mouth, so warm and soft on his, was, he realized, welcome anywhere, any time. And he missed it the instant Crowley pulled away. "I'll call you if I can't make it back in time for dinner."

"'Make it back'?" Aziraphale said, confused.

Crowley winked at him and walked away, his long legs swiftly carrying him out of the shop. 

Aziraphale sighed. His meal, scarcely half eaten, was no longer at all appetizing. With a halfhearted aggression he poked at it, moved it around, and poked at it again. And then doggedly, he ate.

* * * 

It was late afternoon when Crowley called to say that he would not make it back for dinner. Aziraphale, who had sold more books than the day before and had kept his temper on a hair trigger throughout, said, "Fine," and hung up. When Crowley called back—he assumed it was Crowley— he ignored the phone's ringing until it stopped and silence flooded back into the room. Aggrieved, he took himself out to his favorite sushi bar. A couple of hours later, with the lingering tension finally gone and with a mug of tea at hand, Aziraphale rang him back.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's voice was tentative.

"I missed you," Aziraphale said bluntly.

"Yeah," Crowley said quietly. "Same here."

After a long, long silence, Aziraphale began, "I'm sorry—"

"No. You've no cause to apologize."

"I shouldn't have hung up on you." He meant it, had regretted it since he had done it.

"You could've shouted at me," Crowley countered. "Hanging up was a kindness."

Mollified, Aziraphale told Crowley about his day, and thanked him again for his work on preparing his cast-offs for sale. "I made a truly astonishing amount of money today. I should really give you—"

"Nothing," Crowley interrupted. There was a pause. "I'm going to be out of town for the next couple of days."

Aziraphale held the mug to his lips. "Ah." He sipped his tea. He would not ask why, though a number of emotions rose within him, none of them the sort that he wanted to feel. "Well, then—" he began, determinedly burying his feelings.

"I love you, angel."

Aziraphale was slow to respond. His mind was, suddenly, shockingly, spinning. At last, picking his words with care, he said, "You know, a cynical person might think you were just trying to weaken my defenses."

"He'd only be partly right, that person," Crowley said ruefully, and Aziraphale laughed—just a little—again. "As they say," Crowley added, "'Two things can be true at the same time.'"

He was glad that Crowley couldn't see his expression. "'They'?"

"On-the-telly they.'" Crowley inhaled audibly and said, "Just give me a couple of—"

"Don't," Aziraphale cut him off. "You needn't say anything." He held the receiver more tightly. "I have several projects to attend to, and it'll be better if you're out from under foot, anyway."

"Ah … right." 

"Good night, Crowley," Aziraphale said, in the same even tone. "Oh, and—"

"Yes?"

His voice dropped a full register, so that it was rich and thick, and filled with truth. "I love you, too." Very gently he placed the handset on the cradle. If Crowley had anything else to say, Aziraphale didn't hear it. He took a deep breath, held it in his chest for several seconds, and then let it pour out, very slowly, through parted lips. "Crowley."

* * * 

There were always projects to attend to. Most of the time they went ignored. Now, though, Aziraphale applied himself to creating a completely accurate inventory of his collection, which was the biggest project on his longstanding list. Before Adam's intervention, he had known precisely where everything was, and some things—ancient texts, untranslated works by rare authors, early printing press pamphlets—had never made it into the inventory. They were never to be sold, so he had not seen the need to document them, Inland Revenue be damned. Now, with old and new titles strewn throughout the entire bookshop, he wanted as accurate a compilation as possible. He wished he could as easily physically reorganize them.

So, the following morning, well before dawn was peering over the horizon, he began. He was fortified with a mug of tea and prepared with a thick ring-bound notebook and a pencil. The process of tabulating every title, along with publication information, its date of acquisition, its value, its condition, and asking price, stretched out before him like a long, dark tunnel. Since there were many titles he had never intended to sell, he priced them on the moment. He foresaw that this project would take far more than two days—a long, dark tunnel, indeed—and he wondered if Crowley had a gadget that might expedite the process.

His mind wandered to Crowley again and again, like a moth to flame. Of course he wondered what the demon was up to, why the secrecy, and when he might know what it had all been for. But more than that, as he had told Crowley the previous evening, he simply missed him. He might have been engaged in this very task, and even if Crowley had been sprawled on the sofa in the back room with his ever present phone in hand, or flat on his back in his bed upstairs, asleep, Aziraphale would have been content. With him somewhere else entirely, Aziraphale felt ridiculously bereft.

By noon, he was done cataloguing for the day. He opened the shop for a few hours, sold most of what remained on the sales bookcase, and closed it again half an hour before dusk. He locked up the shop and went out onto the pavement. It was bustling with the early evening crowds. After purchasing a roll from a bakery, he went to the park. The ducks glided nearer the bank when he approached. It soothed him to stand there and toss bits of day-old bread to them. Their slow glide, paddling feet visible just below the surface of the water, helped to rebuild his sense of peace. He pretended not to notice their sudden, violent agitation when met with a morsel. But he understood it. That had been him, yesterday evening, when he had hung up on Crowley. Nothing rational about it—though, he supposed whimsically, Crowley's presence fed a kind of appetite, too.

Streetlamps, store displays, and the head beams of cars shone bright in the darkening sky as he made his way back to the shop. He slipped inside, traded his jacket for his cardigan, and went to the kitchenette to prepare a mug of cocoa.

The phone rang. He did not hurry, nor did he dally, but his heart was beating faster when he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Angel!" It was Crowley.

The obstinate inner turbulence that had withstood the serenity of the ducks went away in a second. "Crowley," Aziraphale said, and was gratified to hear his voice sound friendly but collected in his own ears—rather than relieved and fawning, as he heard it in his head.

"I tried earlier, but there was no answer," Crowley said. "Look, I've gotta go. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh." A mixture of surprise and pleasure, seasoned with an unhealthy dollop of disappointment, left him half-smiling and half-frowning at the same time. "Good night, then."

"Good night, angel." The call was disconnected. Aziraphale stood there a moment longer, Crowley's voice warm in his mind. He restored the handset to its cradle. "Right." He thrust his hands into his pockets and went back to the kitchenette to finish making his cocoa.

* * * 

The following day was devoted to the inventory project. Aziraphale kept the shop closed and enjoyed the solitude; he had not opened a bookshop only to sell books. As the hours passed, he drank innumerable mugs of tea and nibbled on a bar of chocolate he had found at the back of a cupboard in his kitchenette. It was mindless work, requiring just enough presence of mind to ensure that the information was accurately recorded. And it was slow work; hence, the tea and chocolate breaks. 

Late in the day, he folded his pencil between the pages of the notebook and pulled himself to his feet. He was filled with a sense of heroic effort, having completed a long bottom shelf, tight with narrow volumes of Greek plays. It was of idle interest to him where they had come from—they were not of his original collection—and not for the first time, he wondered how Adam had sourced those titles and others like them. Aziraphale's mind? Crowley's? Adam's father's? His adopted father, of course. Hopefully he had gotten nothing at all from his real one—or, his original one, perhaps he should say.

Yawning, he took note of the time. He stored the notebook on his desk and went to the coat tree for his jacket. When it was draped properly about his shoulders and hips, he checked his trousers pocket for money, and headed out into the dusk. It was another grey evening, and the lights were billowy with mist. He inhaled the moist air deeply, noticing that a soft chill rain was beginning to fall. Aziraphale realized that he was famished. Other than the bar of chocolate, he had taken nothing other than tea.

He bought a packet of fish and chips from his favorite chippy, and assuaged his clamoring hunger by eating some of the chips on the walk back. The phone remained silent as he savored every bite. It did not ring while he made his tea, nor, hours later, when he stirred a mug of cocoa as he went upstairs. He lay reading on his bed for a few hours, almost entertained by a tortuous mystery. The windows were running with moisture, and the room was cool. He was considering the need for the electric fire when, downstairs, the phone trilled.

Aziraphale knew that if it was Crowley the phone would ring until he picked up. He trotted down the stairs and across the floor. Standing beside his desk, he lifted the handset. But before he could speak, Crowley said, "Aziraphale," and he sounded almost—there was no other way of describing it—proprietary. 

"Hello to you, too," Aziraphale said, and made no effort to disguise his pleasure at the sound of that voice.

"Sorry for the late call. Just got home." The words came out quickly, without Crowley's usual drawl. "Will you come with me tomorrow?"

"Where to?" Aziraphale asked. In truth, at this moment, he would go with him anywhere.

"South Downs."

Aziraphale allowed the moment to hang. And then he said, "If we can visit Bignor while we're there."

"Bignor?" The request clearly blindsided him.

"Roman villa north of Arundel."

"I—I know where it is. Why there?" And now there was a twist of suspicion in his voice.

"We went to Caerleon last month. Why not?"

"Right." Aziraphale could almost hear the gears in Crowley's head attempting to realign and seat together correctly again. "Bignor, it is," he said, after a few seconds.

"Lovely. How early are we going? Should I bring—?"

"Seven. We'll stop for breakfast on the way."

"I'll see you then," Aziraphale said.

"Good night, Aziraphale," Crowley said. The way he said it made Aziraphale's skin prickle.

"Good night, Crowley. Welcome home." He hung up the phone, and stood still a long moment. His entire being was suffused with warmth, as if he had swallowed sunshine. Smiling quietly to himself, he went back upstairs to read his book. Crowley would be here soon; it was nearly three in the morning.

* * * 

The Bentley swung up to the curb a few minutes before seven. Aziraphale was waiting and went out immediately. He pulled the shop door to, making sure the lock engaged. When he turned round, Crowley was standing right in front of him. When he lowered his head to kiss him, Aziraphale's heartrate skyrocketed. The morning air was very brisk and the sun as yet cast no warmth as their mouths met. But Aziraphale didn't feel the cold. Crowley's body seemed to radiate heat like a furnace, and his lips were warm. When they drew apart, Aziraphale stared up at him with something like wonder. 

"Ready?" Crowley asked in a husky whisper.

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale replied.

Crowley was smiling. "To get in the car, angel."

Aziraphale exhaled giddily, "That, too."

Crowley's hand rested briefly against the small of Aziraphale's back as he walked with him down the steps. Distracted, Aziraphale nevertheless remained cautious of traffic as he went round to the other side of the car and stowed his snack tin in the back. Once in the passenger seat, he placed his hands in his lap and forced himself to settle. His lips still tingled.

"So, what's in the South Downs?" he asked.

Crowley placed a hand on his knee. "Wait till breakfast?" His hand was as warm as the rest of him.

"Certainly," Aziraphale agreed. He was afraid that he might sound breathless. That hand, simply resting on his knee, was doing things to other parts of him.

They crawled out of London, the morning commuter traffic often stop and go, and, frustratingly, sometimes more stop than go. Crowley was surprisingly circumspect in his driving. Aziraphale suspected it had less to do with catering for Aziraphale's dislike of recklessness than Crowley's inclination to keep his hand where it was. Once they were clear of most of the congestion, an increase in speed while driving one-handed was no longer a concern, and the Bentley surged forward as if unleashed.

Crowley chose a small cafe in Surrey for their breakfast stop. While they waited for their orders, Aziraphale surreptitiously studied him. There was something new about— "Your hair. You've changed it."

"What d'you think?" Crowley turned his head from side to side, self-mockingly preening.

Given leave to do so, Aziraphale admired him openly. "I like it. It's romantic." 

Crowley's hair had grown out, most noticeably along the sides and back, and he had allowed his sideburns to lengthen, stopping level with the middle of his ears. A thick relaxed curl fell across his high forehead, adding to the effect. It appeared soft, unlike the stiff pompadour he had recently favored. Aziraphale wanted to touch it. "Heathcliffish?" Crowley asked. His eyes shone with a spark of smile.

Aziraphale thought about it. "Darcy-esque, I would say." 

"Heathcliff was more romantic."

"Heathcliff was deranged."

"Darcy was a prig."

"But very attractive. And not deranged."

Their server arrived with a pot of tea and the pastry that Aziraphale had ordered. Opening his UHT milk tub, Aziraphale said, "I met her, Emily."

"Brontë? Did you?" Crowley sipped his tea.

After giving his tea a stir, Aziraphale let it cool while he sliced the pastry into manageable bites. He nodded. "A chance encounter on the moors."

Crowley watched him fork a piece into his mouth. They had dined together many times, and the demon had always watched him eat. For the first time, Aziraphale felt deeply self conscious about it. "Did you just happen to have a copy of her book with you so she could sign it?" Crowley asked.

"Sadly, no." Aziraphale slid the plate into the middle of the table between them. He indicated with his fork that Crowley should help himself. "She had yet to write it."

"Huh." Crowley snagged a piece and held it up as if considering its merits. "I met her, too." He set the bit of pastry on his tongue and slowly closed his lips over the tines. Still chewing, he said, "Out on the moors. It's quite possible that's why she wrote it."

Aziraphale laughed. "I don't believe you. I was on my way to town. You know, bestowing blessings, all that. The coach broke an axle, so I decided to walk. She was picking flowers with Anne. I'd gotten lost and she gave me directions."

Crowley broke into a smile. "Maybe that's who I was thinking of. Anne. 'I dream about the world, but then/I dream of fiends instead of men …'"

He recited from the poem in a plummy, old-style BBC voice. But almost the entirety of Aziraphale's focus was on that supple mouth as it shaped the words. He wanted to stretch across the table and taste it again, feel the soft pressure of its response, maybe even …. Crowley raised his brows. Aziraphale felt himself flush. "Anne had a vivid imagination," he muttered. "Why the South Downs?"

Crowley bit his bottom lip. He took a steadying breath and said, "I've found a place." He hurried on, as if afraid that Aziraphale might interrupt him. "A house with a bit of land."

For a long moment, Aziraphale could think of nothing to say. Crowley was staring at him, waiting for his response. When he did not immediately say anything, Crowley began to look a little worried. That, more than anything, helped Aziraphale to gather his thoughts. "With a view to moving?" he asked, dimly aware that he sounded shocked, even though he was trying not to. "Away from London?"

Crowley nodded. But he said, "Possibly."

"You would leave London?"

"Why not?" Crowley's shrug implied that it was a perfectly acceptable idea, but his gaze was very direct and very tense. Aziraphale could feel him, a little, trying to channel his will, to soften Aziraphale's automatic resistance.

"Wouldn't you miss—?"

"The noise, the traffic, the people?" He was swaying slightly from side to side, the way he did when he brought the full power of his persuasion to bear. It wasn't wholly intentional, Aziraphale knew that.

But feeling the slightest bit crowded, Aziraphale said mildly, "You've lived with all of that for hundreds of years. In fact, when it was worse."

"Wasn't bothered. And I had reasons."

Feeling a tickle of panic inside his chest, Aziraphale nevertheless managed to ask in a normal voice, "What's different?"

Crowley lifted his chin. "You won't be there—if you come with me."

"Ah." He held his mug between both hands and stared down into the milky tea. Leave London? His bookshop? He was content there. He liked it there. His _life_ was there. 

Crowley touched his wrist. He was trying to look into Aziraphale's downturned face. "Let me show it to you," he said urgently. "This place I've found."

Around them the cafe was humming with conversation and laughter. Humans on their way to work, or out for a visit, or simply enjoying an early morning indulgence. What would it be like to live in the country, or one of the smaller towns in the south of England in this day and age? That had been his life off and on before he had moved to London. He had been happy then. And he had been happy because always—always—Crowley had been somewhere nearby. A thought occurred to him. He drank from his mug and deliberately put it down. He raised his head and conjured a small, mocking smile. "Is that where you mean to seduce me, then?"

But Crowley rocked forward and grasped both of Aziraphale's hands in a tight grip. He said fiercely, "I would do it right here, if you'd let me." He cast a swift look round at the other diners. "No one need know. They wouldn't see a thing."

It wasn't often that Aziraphale was utterly speechless. Crowley's words had summoned an image of himself laid out upon this table, Crowley on top of him, their mouths together in a hungry kiss, their bodies— He gave himself a shake. "Perhaps … another time," he said carefully. "Somewhere … more comfortable."

Crowley released him and sat back, his eyes still shooting sparks. "Just come have a look, angel."

"Yes, all right." He tapped the side of the plate with his fork, just hard enough to raise a small ting from the inexpensive crockery. "Help me finish this, and we'll be on our way."

* * * 

They drove between fields, some still growing, many cropped close to the ground. They passed through thickly treed countryside, and slowed for many towns and hamlets. The air was fresh, and as they came closer to the coast, increasingly moist. Aziraphale had not traveled this way for a very long time. It was undeniably beautiful, and the air in London was never this clean and sweet smelling.

Crowley had attempted conversation but given up after too many absent responses. Aziraphale was aware of Crowley's tension, and tried to soothe it with the occasional pat on his knee. But mostly he was simply enjoying the countryside. And, of course, he was thinking. This was important to Crowley, and it would be a terrible disappointment if Aziraphale did not share his desire to relocate. If Crowley moved away, and Aziraphale remained in London, they would surely see each other from time to time. But the very idea vexed him. Time to time would not be acceptable, not nearly good enough. Especially now that they had started this new thing between them. 

He thought, _All right. Say, we move to the South Downs._ His mind jumped to what they would have to do to accomplish that. Would he keep his shop, and open it once a month, or perhaps every few weeks? What if he sold it? The very idea made him mutter, softly but aloud. He felt Crowley turn toward him but ignored him. What if he sold it? It would sell quickly, he had no doubt, and for a princely sum. And what of his collection? He found himself frowning at his reflection in the window. How could he possibly whittle it down to a few bookcases?

London was constantly moving and changing. He and Crowley would not be missed. Even the ducks in the park would find new bread patrons. Aziraphale smiled wryly to himself. But it need not be permanent, this move, need it? He could close up the shop, and if it didn't work out, he could return to London. Alone? He frowned again.

"You're very quiet," Crowley commented.

Aziraphale looked across at him. Crowley was a little nervous and worried—about him, Aziraphale was certain, about his reaction, about his response. And suddenly, just like that, the world calmed. Aziraphale stretched out his hand again and laid it on Crowley's knee, and this time he left it there. "Just thinking," he said. "Much farther?"

Crowley's smile was uncertain. "Not much." He covered Aziraphale's hand with his own.

A while later, he turned the Bentley down a narrow two-lane road. Here the land tumbled down toward the coast, providing some quite stunning views of rolling green hills and trees brilliant in autumnal yellows, reds, and oranges. Whole hillsides seemed to be ablaze with dazzling yellow beech. At the base of one such hill, Crowley turned into a narrow drive, pulled the Bentley onto the grass verge, and turned off the engine. 

They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. The weather could not have been kinder if Crowley had personally arranged it. The November sun shone bright, if low, in a sky lightly laced with shreds of cloud. Tall, thick hedges grew along the lane on each side. Crowley climbed out, so Aziraphale followed. Hands gripped together at his waist, fearing the worst, he said, "Here?" He had begun a thorough study of the surrounding grounds, but could glimpse only fields and some heavy stands of trees.

"No," Crowley said, and pointed along the nose of the Bentley toward the top of the lane, some distance away. "There."

Aziraphale had started at the wrong compass point. The house Crowley was pointing at stood northerly, nestled among a cul-de-sac of trees—conifers mixed with ash, beech, and oak—its southern exposure open to the sun. It was a middling-sized stone structure. He guessed, given the arrangement of windows, that it must be three storeys. The hillside rose behind it. A beech hanger flared fiercely yellow at its summit, and, at this distance and angle, glowed like a crown on top of the house.

Crowley peered at his watch. "We're early, but I see his car." He took Aziraphale's hand. "Will you come?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said. He was intrigued now. They returned to the car and drove up to the house. The hedges blocked their view to either side, but, from the east, came the occasional buzz of bees—quite a number of them for so late in the year; and from the west, at least near the opening of the lane, the breeze carried a smattering of unintelligible conversation.

A young, fair-haired man stood beside the car. He jerked his gaze from the phone in his hand to the Bentley, and raised his arm in a wave.

"And this is?" Aziraphale asked, as Crowley brought the car to a stop.

Crowley grimaced. "James? John? Wait—I have his card."

"We should get out. He's coming over."

Jacob was his name, and he stood a respectful distance away as he joined them. He seemed nervous, edgy. Aziraphale smiled to himself as he realized the cause: Crowley could be very intimidating without even trying. The estate agent introduced himself to Aziraphale, shook his hand and Crowley's, and began his estate agent patter. Aziraphale listened with less than half an ear but quickly got the gist: Pargett Cottage was a Grade II listed house. It dated back a little over two hundred years. The original owner had been …. It was at that point that Aziraphale tuned out—for the most part, anyway. He turned himself into a sort of shortwave radio, receiving information in pulses, some interestingly strong, others ignorably weak. 

His ears pricked up when Jacob spoke about the property itself, which was, in effect, divided into four regions. The upper portion comprised the house and the two acres on which it sat. Primary features, other than the house, were the beech hanger at the top of the hill, which also designated the upper reach of the property; the hedge-framed east and west boundaries, which enclosed large stands of trees and outbuildings; and the southern, gently sloping grounds, which encompassed the garage and toolshed. 

Below the upper two acres lay a second two acres, informally split into three. The center section, which went from the bottom of the upper region's southern boundary to the lane below, contained the long drive, and was restricted to use by the homeowner.

The western portion, a mix of well-maintained trees, shrubs, and lawn, fell from the primary grounds down to the bottom third—the piece nearest the lane—which had been given over to the locals, many years before, for use as an allotment. Those, Aziraphale assumed, were the voices he had heard.

The eastern third was a long field of uncultivated land, vivid with late-blooming wildflowers of every hue, though dominated now by a few still-standing sunflowers. The owner of the eastern property kept bees, and she had struck an arrangement with the prior owner to hold that land for their use and production. According to Jacob the honey was locally renowned for its pure color and rich flavor. Aziraphale's taste buds tingled. He wondered if they might find a jar of it before returning to London.

Of course, Jacob explained, the land would be theirs to do with as they wished, were they to purchase it. There were no formal agreements with the neighbors or the locals.

As they continued up the drive, Jacob pointed out the garage with an attached toolshed and, just visible on the western side of the house, a corner of the set-back conservatory. More autumn flowers bloomed in perfectly delineated patches alongside the stone walk. A pair of enormous urns stood sentry at the foot of the steps leading to the porch, filled with grasses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, begonias, and gladiolus—a riot of color.

Jacob unlocked the door and led them into the house. Aziraphale wandered a little behind, peering into the closet and toilet under the stairs at the far end of the entry foyer; the spacious lounge; and a beautifully appointed study at the northeast end of the hall. They backtracked to the dining room. It was on the other, western side, of the foyer. The room was airy and large, with a chandelier hung with sparkling crystal teardrops arrayed around flame-shaped modern bulbs. A massive table with massive chairs to seat a dozen would not fill the room. It was separated from the kitchen by a freestanding counter outfitted with cupboards, which Jacob called an "island," giving both spaces an open, welcoming feeling. The kitchen was fully equipped and very modern, with plenty of gleaming tile. At its far end was a door which gave way, Jacob said, to the conservatory.

Bewilderingly, Jacob brought them back once more to the foyer. A dozen feet down the hall, there was a closed door, which they had bypassed on their first walk through. But now Jacob stood with his hand on its handle. He said, "I understand this room would be yours, Mr Fell." He swung the door wide and gestured Aziraphale inside. Aziraphale lobbed a scowl Crowley's way, but Crowley only canted his head toward the room, encouraging Aziraphale to enter. 

It was a library. Here the walls went up to the ceiling of the second level, and were covered with beautifully crafted shelves, dusted and ready for occupation. Light poured in from windows on two storeys, which faced west and north. Aziraphale went to the center of the room and silently gauged the chamber's capacity. It could take a few added freestanding bookcases—there was more than enough space—with ample room left over for a well-used sofa, a much loved favorite chair, and a desk, or even two. Jacob was speaking, but Aziraphale's shortwave reception had gone down for the moment. His eyes took in the warm paneling, the burnished shelves, the tall rolling ladder, and he was quietly delighted. It was a wonderful space, similar to, though smaller by far than his bookshop—and with a more intimate charm. He looked across the room at Crowley, who stood leaning against the door frame, and simply stared at him. Crowley smiled back, that hopeful look again in his eyes.

Jacob may have realized that, with the unveiling of the library, he probably no longer needed to sell the house. But dutifully, he took them upstairs to display the oversized master bedroom with its en suite bathroom, three other comfortably sized bedrooms, another full bathroom, a linen closet, and assorted nooks and crannies that were an essential part of a structure this old and well loved. Off the hall between the smaller bedrooms was access to a roof hatch with a pull-down ladder. It gave entry to the full-sized attic, wherein the walls had been insulated and enclosed, a solid floor laid, and a new and impressively large water tank installed, which, said Jacob with enthusiasm, provided excellent water pressure to every tap in the house.

Best of all were the south-facing, french-style, dormer windows, which opened onto a small balcony. The balcony itself was just wide and deep enough to accommodate two comfortable chairs and a small table, but afforded a view of the surrounding grounds for miles around. According to Jacob, they might even, on exceptionally clear days, glimpse the Channel.

Aziraphale stepped out and stood a moment, his hands on the chest-high railing and imagined he could smell the waters of the Channel, if not see them. In that regard, he was quite certain that Jacob had fibbed. Crowley hung back, hips canted forward in his perpetual slouch, arms folded over his chest, to all appearances utterly uninvolved. Jacob came out onto the balcony, his mouth open, undoubtedly to remark on the view. But Aziraphale gave him a look, the one reserved for would-be shoplifters or overly handsy children, which caused the estate agent to close his mouth, turn on his heel, and step back inside.

"Um," Jacob stammered, "you'd probably like to spend some time by yourselves. I have some calls I can make. How about if I just wait downstairs? Take your time. I've carved out the whole day just for you." He continued to ramble, even after Aziraphale softened his expression. 

"That would be lovely," Aziraphale said kindly. 

A nervous smile twitched across the young man's face and he made his escape, footsteps clattering down the metal ladder as he disappeared from view.

Crowley's laughter was low enough to spare the boy's ego. "You scared him," he said, putting one hand on the railing, the other over Aziraphale's hand. He bumped against his shoulder.

"I'm simply glad young Jacob could take a hint," Aziraphale said. He raised Crowley's hand to his lips and lightly kissed it. "You didn't have anything to do with this place being available, did you? It really is quite perfect."

"Nope. I've had a couple of agents who know the area, who know their neighbors, keeping an eye out."

"And this place just happened to come up."

"Well," Crowley clarified, "let's just say that I did not cause the elderly owner to break a hip and have to move in with his grandson and family."

Aziraphale's eyebrows went up.

"The owner—it's his grandfather," Crowley said, gesturing with his chin in the direction where Jacob had gone. "He couldn't manage the stairs anymore."

"That sounds awfully—"

"Nothing to do with me." He kissed Aziraphale's hand in turn. "It might even be possible that the old man took a tumble with the hope of moving in with young Jacob. Old people can be crafty that way."

Aziraphale frowned. "Would I be correct in thinking that all this family drama happened some while ago?"

A cagey expression flicked across Crowley's face. "You would."

Aziraphale turned and stared at him. "You've been looking for a while, then!"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Couple of years? Off and on?" He made it sound like an undemanding hobby.

"So this place—"

"I saw it from the lane when I was here on one of my recces, probably a year and a half ago? It was a happy surprise to learn that Jacob and the property owner shared the same last name. Honestly, angel."

"Go on."

Crowley shrugged. "Jacob was one of the agents I'd hired. Told him I'd seen the place from the road; wondered if he was related to the owner and if he might be interested in selling some day. He said he hoped so, because his grandfather was living here alone and he was becoming more frail by the day. He showed me a floor plan and pictures. That was months ago. The grandfather took a header—which, let me say again, I had nothing to do with—and Jacob gave me a ring. Said the house had been readied for sale, and was I still interested." This little speech sounded almost as if it had been practiced, having a certain sing-song cadence that Aziraphale was familiar with: Crowley speaking rapidly but concisely in the hope of avoiding censure.

"And—?" Aziraphale prompted.

"I said, yes, quite, and drove down so he could give me the grand tour in person. I put a provisional deposit on it. But I told him that the final decision is yours."

Aziraphale cast his gaze out over the grounds below, stopping briefly on some small, colorful boxes near the upper end of the wildflower field. Beehives. From here, too, he could see the gardeners at the western end of the property near the lane, gathering harvest detritus and using it, he guessed, to fill compost boxes. Farther out, the land slumped lazily ever downward. He could see fields outlined by hedges; small groves of trees edging some of those same fields; and, among the roofs of towns and villages, an occasional skyward-reaching church steeple; all shrinking as they fell off into the distance. It seemed as if he could see forever—in sharp contrast to the skies of London, which were, and would forever be, crowded with stone and glass.

He threaded his fingers through Crowley's. "Let's have another look."

Crowley grinned and his eyes became noticeably more yellow behind his lenses. "You haven't seen the best bit yet."

The 'best bit,' in Crowley's view, were the large faux-Victorian style conservatory, located directly off the kitchen; and the walled garden, which was situated on the northeast side of the cottage, but some distance up the hill, so that it did not fall in the footprint of the house's shadow. The conservatory was filled with delicate flowering plants and herbs, surplus left behind by Jacob's grandfather.

The walled garden was a small—in the way of such things—idyllic spot, positioned to capture several hours of sun each day, with shrubs and small trees that filled the gaps between patches of lawn, bright-colored daisies and asters, as well as blood-red Virginia creeper climbing up trellised walls, and larger rust-hued trees that provided shade in the afternoon. A large wrought iron bench stood near the center, not far from a generous birdbath; another, smaller one, was placed in the southeast corner under a relatively recent addition, perhaps only a dozen years old: a reddish-golden oak, which would provide shade most of any given day, possibly even in the winter. The garden abutted the neighbor's property, but its towering hedges and tall, heavily leafed trees gave it utter privacy.

Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand. "We need to talk."

* * *

Aziraphale was picking at a slice of cake. Jacob had recommended a nearby restaurant when they told him they wanted some time for discussion. The cake was excellent, moist and rich; and he wasn't neglecting it for lack of an appetite. There were just so many thoughts clattering around inside his head, some of which he wanted to pin down and give due consideration, many others that he wished would fall right out of his ears and go far away.

The cottage really was a delight. After leaving the garden, they had spent another hour wandering from one room of the house to another. It had been all too easy—and impossible to resist—mentally outfitting the library. Aziraphale had gauged the space and what he might bring from the bookshop. He had studied the shelves and considered how he might organize his collection. And he had stopped only when Crowley had taken him by the arm and insisted that they review the rest of it.

In the master bedroom, Aziraphale had stood beside him in the center of the floor, beautifully finished tongue-and-groove wood, and had said, "Would this be ours?"

By way of answer, Crowley had kissed him. 

And now they were in the restaurant, and Aziraphale was faced with making a huge decision. It scalded him, a little, to contemplate leaving his bookshop, leaving London. And yet— It was beautiful here, and calm, so calm. He remembered the soothing hum of the bees in the wildflower field. The trees surrounding the property were alive with birds and birdsong. The air was heavenly, scented with growing things and solitude. Peaceful.

Crowley took a bite from his plate. Glancing down, Aziraphale saw that the cake was half gone. He raised his mug of coffee to his lips and drank. Picking up a forkful of cake, he said, "I have a million questions."

One dark brow formed an arch. "Knowing you, you aren't exaggerating."

"If I am, it's only by a little." He chewed slowly, finding that the cake really was very good and worthy of his appreciation. "All right," he said. "Yes."

Crowley sat back. "Yes?" he repeated. "Yes, what?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said again, and picked up another bite. "Let's make it ours." He couldn't know that his face was full of hope and excitement, as well as uncertainty and maybe even a little fear—the kind that comes with something new and very different. Crowley didn't ask him to second-guess himself. He didn't say, "Are you sure, angel? It's a big decision." He only leaned forward and touched his cheek—and it was very clear that, more than anything in the world at that moment, he wanted to kiss him.

When they returned to the cottage, Jacob was standing in the driveway next to his car, staring down at the screen of his phone. He smiled as Crowley stopped the car alongside him. Before he could speak, Crowley said, "Get the paperwork going. We want it."

"Oh," he said. "Great!" He shook Crowley's hand and reached across him to shake Aziraphale's hand as well. "Wait a minute—before I forget." He opened his passenger car door and retrieved a small box. He handed it to Crowley. "From Hannah. My great-aunt." He gestured toward the property to the east. "She said she's looking forward to meeting you."

Crowley passed the box to Aziraphale who opened it. It was a jar of honey. "Please tell her thank you," Aziraphale said with a smile that was meant to charm.

It worked. Jacob nodded happily. "I certainly will."

* * * 

As they rolled down the narrow two-lane road, Aziraphale unscrewed the cap off the jar. He poked his pinky finger into amber depths, corkscrewed his hand to keep the dollop of honey from dripping off, and stuck it into his mouth. "Hm. Very nice."

"Share," Crowley said. So Aziraphale delivered a slick of honey to Crowley's mouth. Crowley murmured his approval. Aziraphale stared at him. The velvet of Crowley's tongue encircling his finger had begun to rouse something out of quiescence, something that had slumbered as long as he had been human shaped. There had been tentative sparks when they kissed, certainly, but this— He conscientiously restored the lid to the jar and the jar to the box.

Apparently feeling his gaze, Crowley shot him a questioning look. Aziraphale rummaged up a smile and turned to face the passing greenery outside his window. He wrestled his thoughts back to a safer subject: the purchase of Pargett Cottage.

He would have to make a list; probably more than one list. If he sold the shop—and he was beginning to think that that would be the best solution—he would have to find new homes for those volumes and items he did not wish to keep. He could see in an instant that the undertaking would be monumental. The inventory he had already begun would have taken months. Suddenly, he brightened. He would not have to complete it! That would be the job of—what was her name? Catherine? That was it. She could see to it. Catherine, last name unremembered, who worked for one of the big auction houses. He had met her many years ago, when she had been starting out. She knew that there was something unusual about him, that he seemed of a different time, and that he never aged, but so long as he provided her with exceptional stock, or, rarely, purchased it, she had never dared question him.

Immersed in his thoughts, Aziraphale was slow to respond to Crowley's speaking his name.

"Hm?" he asked, when he said it again.

Crowley looked uneasy. "Second thoughts, angel?"

"What? Oh, no. More like a mountain of first ones."

"Ah." Still tense, Crowley said, "Tell me."

Crowley became his sounding board. Having an auction house do the cataloging and assessment of his collection met with his approval. He suggested moving everything that would not go on the block into a high-end storage facility. That would clear some of the space, including some bookshelves, and protect those items in the interim.

"How long before the sale will be settled?" Aziraphale asked.

"Not sure," Crowley said. "A mortgage won't be needed. There won't be a chain. Conveyancing will be the biggest bugger, and I've spoken to a specialist solicitor who will do the work 'no sale, no fee'—not that Jacob's grandfather will change his mind, or worse, gazump us."

"Crowley," Aziraphale was gazing at him a little wonderingly, "you are speaking a foreign language."

"Been swotting." He laughed; he had been showing off. " We'll pay cash, so no mortgage; the place is owned outright, so no chain. 'No sale, no fee' means that the solicitor won't charge if Jacob's granddad were to pull out, even once said solicitor has done a wodge of work. And granddad won't change his mind, according to Jacob, or take a better offer—gazump us—because he won't get one. I've made sure of that."

"Ah."

"I've researched the property—grounds and structure—and it all looks to be in good physical condition, and there are no entailments on record, nor unapproved work…." He was, Aziraphale realized, speaking mostly to himself. "So, to answer your question, unless we're very unlucky, three or four months?"

"Oh! Well, that's good. I'll need at least that long to sort things out."

They drove for a mile or two in silence. And then they both started to speak at the same time. "Go on," Aziraphale said.

Crowley hesitated. "Just—you're seriously considering selling your shop?"

"The more I think about it," Aziraphale replied thoughtfully, "the more I think I want to." He met Crowley's eyes, then pointed at the road ahead. Crowley made a small face, but obeyed. "I feel terrible admitting it, but I think it would be a relief."

"Thought you loved it," Crowley said, a little troubled.

"I did." He looked out the window again. It seemed loutish to say what he felt, but it was the truth, after all. "Adam changed it." He turned back in time to catch Crowley's frown. "And I know I shouldn't resent that—after all, he saved it! Much of it. But, however he did that—and I would very much like to know how—he didn't save everything. Some of my favorite volumes are gone. Texts I discovered hundreds of years ago. And in their place—" He took a deep breath. "Well, I really have no need of rare, first edition children's books, or adult picture books, or—"

"Graphic novels," Crowley interrupted.

"They are picture books," Aziraphale said obstinately. He steadied himself with a deep breath. "It's no longer my collection, Crowley. Not entirely. So, perhaps it's simply time to start anew."

Crowley's warm hand folded over his knee, but he said nothing. The miles passed beneath the Bentley's wheels, the sun inching lower behind them as they drove toward London. "I'm going to sell the flat, of course," Crowley said, some while later. "Even though the solicitor said I should consider renting it out."

"Do you want to?"

Crowley shook his head. "Nah. Only reason for keeping it would be to have a place to stay when we visit London. He raised a brow. "But I'd rather have you in a fancy hotel when we come to town."

"Oh, would you," Aziraphale said with a hint of tartness, but he was secretly pleased. They might be a long way from such a time, but it warmed him to think that Crowley was taken with the idea.

"Dinner, angel?" Crowley asked. "Stop thinking about all of this for the rest of the day?"

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed. "I like that idea."

They did not visit Bignor that day.

* * * 

Dawn arrived cold and grey the following day, much more in keeping with the late autumn weather Londoners were used to. An unenthusiastic drizzle fell off and on throughout the morning. 

After a long night of thinking, of wandering amongst the books and the materials that comprised his collection, Aziraphale went upstairs and lay on his bed. Whether staring up at the ceiling or at the backs of his eyelids, he could not turn off his mind. There were so many pieces to what he was considering. Selling his shop. Selling his books. Moving away from London. Sharing a home with Crowley. These were huge changes, some of them irreversible. And, yet, despite so much uncertainty, he felt that his initial decision was the right one. 

Still, he wanted to feel that this decision was wholly _his_ , and not a result of his ill will toward what Adam had done. He saw now that his life—he, himself, for that matter—had already undergone a dramatic shift. And perhaps Crowley understood that better than he did. It did not help that his thoughts strayed often to Crowley. Yes, he wanted to be with him, he was used to his company—and, yes, this new turn in their relationship had put him off balance, despite his desire to pursue it. But this would be a clean start for both of them—and wasn't a clean start always for the best?

And so, as the sky grew less dark and more grey, Aziraphale rose and went downstairs. He walked through the stacks one last time, inviting them to speak to him, to tell him that what he was contemplating was a mistake. But inside, where there should be no voice but his own, he heard only Crowley: _But I told him that the final decision is yours._

If Aziraphale said no, he knew that Crowley would remain in London. They would continue to grow this new facet of their relationship, and life as they knew it would otherwise go on, unchanged. Aziraphale smiled to himself. Would the demon really find satisfaction in the wilds of the South Downs? And yet, he had been looking for a place—a place _for them_ —for two years. 

Right. He poked one last time at the decision, felt its sides and corners, tested its heft and solidity. And he knew that it was his: his decision, his choice. And it really was the right one.

Fortified with a mug of hot cocoa, Aziraphale rang Catherine to give her the news. She did not respond for several seconds, long enough to make Aziraphale wonder if their connection had been severed. And then he heard her shocked inhalation.

"Mr Fell," she said faintly, "are you quite serious?"

"Indeed, I am. Are you interested?"

"Am I—?" she squeaked, and then she began to speak very rapidly, "Please don't contact anyone else. I would have to kill them."

He stared down at the handset, and then realized belatedly that she might be joking. "Ah. Good, then. When would you like to come over?"

"I'm wiping my calendar as we speak. In an hour? Is that too soon?"

Bemused, Aziraphale replied, "That will be perfectly satisfactory." They rang off shortly afterward. Aziraphale was not certain, but he thought he heard a mad giggle just before the connection was broken.

* * * 

His meeting with her put into motion a massive process that made him squirmingly uncomfortable. It was necessary to close the shop so that a small army of interns (so Catherine labeled them) could swarm over every book and text and work of art, all closely under her direct supervision. They proved to be all young, these interns, but they were also gratifyingly professional. Rather than pad and paper, they each carried something called a tablet, which was capable of taking photographs and providing extensive information about his stock within seconds—without even having to consult his many pricing and provenance reference books. They, too, shared the gleam of fascination mingled with raw cupidity that he had noted in Catherine's demeanor.

Aziraphale spent a lot of time at the park during the days they were there. 

When they had finished, almost two weeks later, he was grateful for the solitude. In his initial conversation with Catherine, he had made his intentions clear. He would provide her with the bulk of his collection to fall under her gavel, but, along with those items reserved for himself, there would be a third and a fourth reserve. Those in the third group would go to the noble institutions of his choice—a few select museums and libraries around the globe, even a few here in Great Britain. With Crowley's help, he contacted his acquaintances at those august establishments via that worrisome delivery service, e-mail, to proclaim his offerings. The response was universally immediate and universally ecstatic. The remaining items were to be sold to his regular customers. With some irony, he called it a "fire sale." Whatever did not sell would be added to the auction.

It fell to Crowley to instruct their solicitor how to proceed with the purchase of the cottage. Crowley himself seemed to spend even more time on his phone these days, and Aziraphale thought that could not be entirely healthy for him. About the time that the catalogue of Aziraphale's holdings was completed, Crowley announced that they would soon be moving into the conveyancing stage of things.

"When will we have to provide our funding?" Aziraphale asked one morning as they stood alongside the rail overlooking the duck pond in St James's.

"You needn't worry about that."

Aziraphale gave him a sharp look. "What does that mean? We are purchasing the cottage together, yes?"

"Well, sort of—"

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?"

Crowley seemed to realize that he had trod on dangerous ground. "It will be in both of our names," he explained, "but I wanted—"

"You wanted—what?"

"I want it to be my gift to you."

Aziraphale was speechless. One of the ducks, soon joined by several others, began raucously complaining about their neglect. Aziraphale flung everything that was in his hand into the water, and an orgy of clacking, splashing, and squawking ensued. "You know that I—" Aziraphale began, but his heart was too full to allow normal speech.

"I know pretty much everything about you, Aziraphale," Crowley said, his voice warm with feeling. "We are neither of us ever going to suffer a lack of funds. Especially after the sale of the flat and the shop. I just want to—"

"Yes." He kissed Crowley's mouth. He took his time about it. "Yes. My gift to you will be … furniture." He made a face. "That sounds dreadful. Surely there is something you might—"

Crowley stopped him with another kiss. "You, angel. That's all I want." He tossed the remains of the bread into the pond and instigated another small riot. Wrapping Aziraphale's hand in his, he led him back to the shop.

* * * 

As the days grew shorter and the weather crueler, Aziraphale's shop also grew emptier and seemingly larger. Catherine, at his request, had arranged the transporting of his books and bookcases and some pieces of furniture to a climate-controlled storage facility, pending the move to the cottage. She had lent him a couple of her interns to help gently box up and ship out his far-flung donations. A few items were collected from his door. Those transactions left him feeling as if he had done something traitorous, even though those goods were going to far more prestigious digs than his old bookshop.

Also with Catherine's help, he found homes in interested universities for the remaining freestanding bookcases; a couple of his desks; several occasional tables and lamps; and a few of the less valuable bits of artwork, though it wasn't their monetary value that guided his choices, but which were of less sentimental value.

It was a harrowing time. He kept telling himself that once they were in the cottage, once they were settled there, everything would be well and good. Crowley, whose favorite thing was not solicitors, even less the reasons for them, often told him the same. And with each passing day, each passing week, Crowley assured him that they were making progress. Some time in March they would be in their new home.

Every few weeks they made the drive to the cottage. Jacob happily met them there, and gave them access. He rarely hung about, simply asking that they let him know when they were leaving, so he could return and secure the premises. They walked the grounds, inspected the outbuildings, and, when the wind was coldest, they took refuge in the walled garden. There they huddled together, hands warming beneath each other's jacket; mouths warming each other's lips. The sleeping oak rustled overhead, a symphony of quiet to accompany the soft sound of their kisses.

They also met Hannah, whose bees had gone silent for the winter. She was a taciturn woman in her seventies, with sculpted cheeks and long, sinewy arms. Her hair, like Jacob's, was fair, though hers was shot through with strands of white. She seemed, Aziraphale thought, to be hewn from marble, with the same intrinsic beauty and strength. Each time they visited, there was a jar of honey on the island between the dining room and the kitchen. Aziraphale made a habit of reciprocating with gifts of specialty chocolates. Jacob told him that they were greatly appreciated.

Crowley's flat sold within hours of being listed. It was then his turn to go through his things and arrange temporary removal to a storage facility. The buyer was paying in cash and wanted to take possession as soon as possible. Crowley's solicitor took care of the details, the completion date was met, and, less than a month later, the Bentley was parked in the alley behind the bookshop, and Crowley was sharing Aziraphale's flat on the first floor.

The ever helpful Catherine, with connections among many wealthy business owners, recommended three from the number of potential buyers for the bookshop, all with comparable offers. Aziraphale, who loathed having to commit time to such tiresome chores, nevertheless hoped to ensure that his successor would be a good addition to his small Soho neighborhood and so performed what he considered his due diligence in vetting them. Crowley went through the list of contenders, too, discussed their merits, and made suggestions. In the end, Aziraphale made his pick. The offer was accepted, contracts exchanged, and a completion date penciled in for the beginning of March.

* * * 

With the completion date for the cottage only a couple of weeks away, Aziraphale devoted his time to organizing the things that would accompany him to the cottage upon move-in. It seemed that he had left it rather late, the disposition of this clutter of stuff that had once seemed so important. Knowing better than to offer assistance, Crowley kept him sane by providing a steady supply of tea and chocolate sweets. He had a knack for recognizing Aziraphale's cracking point. At those times he would sit him down, forcibly if need be, and kiss him till the madness receded. Tea and biscuits helped, too.

At night, Crowley would sleep while Aziraphale worked into the early morning hours. Near dawn, Aziraphale would slip off his shoes and jacket and lay himself down beside Crowley, who would inevitably drape an arm over Aziraphale's middle and a leg over his thighs, and tuck his face into the curve formed by Aziraphale's shoulder and neck, kissing him sleepily as he fell back into slumber. Those moments soothed him as nothing else could.

In all this time he had not forgotten what Heaven and Hell had tried to do to them. His long-established—and obviously unearned—fealty to Heaven still haunted him. He had honestly believed that Heaven would win the war between God's and Satan's armies—and perhaps, without Adam's course correction, it might have done so. But beyond that, beyond the winning, he had not been able to imagine what would happen to _them_ , once the carnage was over. He now knew it was because he hadn't been able to bear the thought of Crowley discorporated, or, worse destroyed, or simply reclaimed by Hell's soulless legions.

So, as he stroked Crowley's thick hair, savored the familiar scent of him, and warmed his fingers against his skin, he knew that this, the two of them together, was worth fighting for. Should Heaven or Hell ever attempt to interfere with them, he would risk his very existence to defy them. He would not give Crowley up. He would not give this up.

* * * 

The day of completion finally arrived. Jacob, despite his solicitor's objections, had allowed Crowley to arrange the delivery of their household goods a week early. While Crowley had spent his days at the cottage, directing removals men to the correct rooms for unloading, as well as accepting delivery of the new furniture they had purchased, Aziraphale had remained behind to oversee the cleaning of the now empty shop, only because he had wanted to be absolutely certain that every last book, piece of text, and tiniest bit of memorabilia had been safely removed. For the last few nights, with deliveries arriving early, Crowley had overnighted at the cottage, while Aziraphale had stayed in a hotel room by himself.

On the final day, with the Bentley rumbling at the curb behind him, Aziraphale stood on the pavement outside the bookshop that was no longer a bookshop, studying the faded paint, the tired windows, and his name on the wall, soon to be removed. This building represented a tiny fraction of his many years, but they had been happy, satisfying ones. He waited, during that long moment, to feel a twinge of regret, perhaps a little panicked comprehension that what he had done was now utterly irreversible. But he didn't. This was simply another ending—and there had been many of those in his long life—but this time, it was his choice and his design.

Crowley said nothing as Aziraphale climbed into the passenger seat, but took his hand between both of his and kissed it. "Ready?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "I want to go home."

A wide smile lit up Crowley's face. He kissed Aziraphale's hand again. "And me," he said.

Spring had arrived since the last time that Aziraphale had driven this way. Flowering trees were frilly with blossoms, and freshly awakened flowers brightened windowsills and walkways. After a few grey days, the sun had burned away the mist and now filled the sky. Everything was lush with new, green growth, and the day was unusually warm. Aziraphale found himself relaxing into the anticipation of what awaited.

As they pulled up, a removal lorry was pulling out of their drive and onto the lane. Another huge lorry blocked the drive near the house. Jacob was chatting with the driver, who appeared to be signing off on some paperwork. He waved at sight of the Bentley. Crowley waved back and drove the car toward the garage.

"He offered to accept the delivery," Crowley explained, as he brought the car to a halt and killed the engine. "Your books."

"Oh!" Aziraphale stepped out just as Jacob loped up. "Congratulations, Mr Fell," the young man said. Behind him, the idling lorry began to lumber down the drive. "Here's the keys to the cottage." He turned his smile on Crowley, who simply raised a brow at him. "The solicitors confirmed that the payment went through, and all the requirements have been met. She's all yours." After a quick handshake, he piled into his car and drove off.

The gardens bordering the walkway and the tops of the urns that stood beside the stone steps were overflowing with color. Aziraphale recognized pansies and petunias, daffodils and hyacinth. "Did you do all of this?"

"I had help. Hannah wanted you to feel welcome."

Aziraphale looked expectantly up at him. "Does that mean there might be honey? I finished the last jar."

"Let's look."

Hands joined, they walked inside. A tall vase filled with cut flowers towered over a small table off the entryway. Inside the lounge, Aziraphale saw for the first time the new sofa and overstuffed chairs they had selected from a picture on Crowley's phone and purchased through a well regarded local store.

The massive desk and throne-like chair from Crowley's flat looked regal in his new study, set beneath the north-facing window. The adjoining wall featured the long, overstuffed sofa from his previous lounge with a large, low coffee table set before it; and across from that, on the opposite side of the room, an even larger TV screen was mounted on the wall. Below it was a fireplace, a beautifully detailed spark guard placed around it. 

The dining room boasted a new maple table and set of chairs—also ordered over Crowley's phone—gleaming beneath the glittering chandelier. A jar of honey with a cheery ribbon round its neck sat in the middle of the table.

Crowley led him back down the hall and pushed open the door to the library and then stood aside. Aziraphale swept his gaze over the room and exclaimed his pleasure. The bookcases repurposed from the bookshop had been arranged in pairs, back to back, in a three-pointed star in the middle of the room. Near the door was the carpet that had concealed his summoning circle, and, there, standing a few feet in front of one the bookshelved walls, were his desk, favorite chair and, opposite it, his old sofa. Stacked scarily high in groups of boxes three wide by three deep were his books, waiting for him to free them from their confinement and give them new homes on the shelves. Light fell in wide shafts through the windows, giving the room an almost cathedral air. One of the windowed walls had a built-in boxseat with a thick, cushioned cover. "Absolutely tip-top," Aziraphale breathed.

He turned to Crowley and said, "This will do."

Crowley gave his hand a tug and took him upstairs.

Because they had agreed that overnight guests were unlikely, they had not outfitted the spare rooms as bedrooms. Instead, they were being used as box rooms, and they were full. Now that they were moved in, they could unpack them at their leisure.

The master bedroom faced east and south. It was filled with mid-morning sunlight. The new bed, a choice made between them, was warmly framed, head and foot, in a simple, solid mahogany. The mattress was covered in an equally simple duvet in shades of burgundy.

"Try it out with me?" Crowley said silkily. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Crowley kissed him before he could summon words. He removed Aziraphale's jacket and unbuttoned his vest. His own shoes and jacket were gone when he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Aziraphale close, his cheek pressed against his middle. Aziraphale bent forward and gently kissed the top of Crowley's head. He sat beside him and removed his shoes. "I don't think I'm—"

"Doesn't matter," Crowley held out a hand and Aziraphale took it. When they lay next to each other, Crowley rolled half on top of him and began to kiss him. At first he was tender, but soon his kisses became more intense, more persuasive. It was easy, Aziraphale discovered, to lose himself in Crowley's attentions. That part of him, which had only ever provided a guide to his tailor in the proper draping of his trousers, woke up. It was a strange feeling, at first, the way it pulsed and ached, growing heavier with each beat of his heart. He wanted—but now was not—but he wanted— He placed a hand flat on Crowley's chest, his fingers splayed. He found, suddenly, that he was out of breath.

Crowley covered his hand with his own and raised his head. "All right?" His eyes were huge and reptilian and beautiful. Aziraphale swallowed, unable to speak. Crowley bent forward and nuzzled his cheek. "It's okay. When you're ready." He lifted himself on his elbows and gazed down at him. "But can I just say … that was a great start?"

Aziraphale managed a small smile in return. "Yes."

Crowley sat up. "Tea?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, and gratefully accepted the hand offered to him, "yes!"

* * * 

They carried their mugs with them out through the conservatory, warm and humid with green, growing things. All of Crowley's plants had survived the trip, and now resided along with newly purchased orchids, lemon and orange trees, and palms, as well as the herbs that Jacob's grandfather had left behind. Aziraphale marveled that there was fruit forming on the citrus trees, and Crowley promised he would get first choice. 

Away from the conservatory, they walked the rock footpath to the back garden behind the house. Surrounded by flowering ornamental shrubs and trees, was a flagstoned patio. There was a table here, with wrought iron chairs, and at one end of the patio, a storage chest for table covers and weather resistant cushions. In the middle of the table stood a tall, furled umbrella. Aziraphale nodded his approval. "Even nicer than in the pictures."

The sun was mild and the chairs were dry, so they sat and drank their tea. Aziraphale closed his eyes as all the worry and stress of the last months drained away. His body was tingling with the remembered sensation of Crowley's touch. He wasn't sure why he had stopped him, but Crowley had understood. He rested his hand on Crowley's arm and stroked it lightly. "Show me your garden."

"Our garden." Crowley drained his mug and stood. 

Putting his empty mug on the table, Aziraphale countered, "So long as you do all the work."

They went together through the almost invisible opening in the hedge. In the few weeks since Aziraphale had visited last, the garden had come alive. He exclaimed with pleasure at the profusion of blooming things, and was quietly enthusiastic as Crowley named each one. They settled together on the bench beneath the oak, which was beginning to show early signs of leafing. The susurrus of the breeze in the branches, the heat trapped in the high-walled corner, and the overwhelming quiet conspired together in producing a state of somnolence that Aziraphale was quite unused to.

It came as a surprise when he woke up, never having been aware of actually falling asleep. He looked up sharply and gave the back of his neck a slow rub. Crowley was leaning against him, his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. He heard a strange buzzing sound and quickly spotted the source: a large ginger cat had made itself comfortable on Crowley's lap.

The day had lengthened. Aziraphale realized, appalled, that he must have slept for over an hour. He pulled himself out of the slump his body had sagged into, eliciting a note of objection from the cat, but only because his movement had caused Crowley to rouse and stir, complaining, as well. "You should have wakened me." Aziraphale said, feeling a little disoriented. Sleep could do that to him, and he had never enjoyed it.

Crowley only rolled his eyes and gathered himself up, absently petting the cat. "I'd have to have been awake myself," he admitted.

"It is rather magical here, isn't it." Aziraphale stood up from the bench and gave himself a shake. He felt surprisingly limber. Yawning, he tidied his clothing. The cat stared up at him, probably sensing that it was about to lose its human furniture. "And who is your friend?"

"This is Pox. One of Hannah's cats," Crowley replied.

"Pax?"

"No, you heard me right. Pox. She has several, and each is named for a disease. Well, a name that fell out of favor years ago."

"Really? Well, hello, Pox." The cat yawned back at him, stretched luxuriously, and stepped down onto the grass in front of the bench. It swarmed up a trellis attached to the stone wall a few feet away, stopped briefly on the coping to wash its ears, then disappeared. Aziraphale took Crowley's hands in his and drew him to his feet. He leaned forward and kissed him, taking his time. Crowley folded his arms around him and reeled him in. They enjoyed a long moment of simple sleepy closeness, before Aziraphale's stomach complained.

"Eat out?" Crowley suggested. "Nothing fancy. Unless you want fancy."

"Hm," Aziraphale was quite happy to stand here in Crowley's arms. "That cafe on the edge of town will do nicely."

* * * 

Later that day, Aziraphale opened the first box. The library was a warm haven, thanks to all of the sunshine streaming in through the upper windows. With a cup of tea on his desk nearby, he soon abandoned himself to the joy of sorting his books. He had never lost his reverence for the feel of paper inscribed with text, the heft and weight of a volume, its singular scent, the world contained within it. He sometimes thought that a book was a more magical creation than he himself.

Crowley came by late evening with a fresh mug of tea for him, gave him a cuddle, and said he was going to bed. They shared a long, sweet kiss. Aziraphale watched him go, liking the way his hair covered the nape of his neck and lay soft on the tops of his ears. When he had gone, he spent a few minutes enjoying his tea before plunging back in.

It was a couple of hours after midnight when he finally went upstairs. Crowley was a long dark mound beneath the duvet. Aziraphale changed out of his clothes and pulled on a long silk nightshirt. It was older than some of the original books in his collection. It had been a while since he had taken the time to wear it; it was an indulgence. His heart beat a little faster as he slipped under the duvet beside the demon, sliding close enough that their shoulders met. At once, Crowley rolled closer, and as he had done in the small bed in Aziraphale's flat, he looped an arm over Aziraphale's chest and a leg over his thighs. He murmured a soft greeting and pressed a kiss against Aziraphale's throat. Cautiously, Aziraphale folded his fingers around Crowley's forearm, but the demon was already drifting back asleep. Held close, as reverently as he would hold a beloved book—or a certain beloved demon—Aziraphale fell into a sort of trance, a state between waking and sleeping. He was aware when Crowley changed position and noticed that he never allowed them to separate entirely. At one point their only point of contact was the upper curve of Crowley's foot tucked against the bottom of Aziraphale's foot, but it was apparently enough to appease him.

Aziraphale was content.

The following day established the bare bones of what would become their routine. Always an earlier riser than Crowley, Aziraphale greeted him with a mug of tea once the sun surmounted the horizon. He quietly relished the sleep-rumpled demon's return to awareness. He was shirtless but wore a loose pair of pajama bottoms. While filling his eyes with his semi-nakedness, Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and sifted his fingers through the soft hair on his chest. He found Crowley staring at him, his eyes bright and flaring with interest. He kissed him good morning and pointed at the mug on his bedside table.

Crowley came downstairs a short while later. He stopped to see what progress Aziraphale had made in the library before going to the conservatory to commune with his plants. Late morning, they took a cup of tea together on the flagstones in the back garden. Aziraphale prepared a plate of biscuits to go with it. It was true that they didn't need to eat, but it was one of the delights of being human that he most enjoyed.

In the afternoon, Crowley went back upstairs to one of the box rooms to sort through things that he had not yet unpacked. After that, he fetched Aziraphale to his study, and cajoled him into watching something nonsensical with him, on his big-screen telly. They bickered over the content of the program, which, to Aziraphale, seemed, although lavishly costumed, poorly constructed storywise. Crowley defended it, though it was obvious that he was just enjoying Aziraphale's caustic observations.

They shared a late tea in the kitchen, seated at the small table they had installed in a corner nook. It was preferred to the large dining area for their meals. They spoke little, random thoughts, reminders of what they yet had to do. Aziraphale could sense a heightened awareness forming between them. For the first time, there were no distractions, no duties to perform, only the two of them, alone. He was aware of Crowley's desire, could feel it growing in himself. But he wasn't quite ready for that ultimate intimacy.

Part of his hesitation undoubtedly stemmed from his life-long allegiance to Heaven. But he had no intention of obeying Heaven any longer. Beelzebub had thought she was talking about Crowley when she said he had gone native. But it was equally true of Aziraphale. Neither of them belonged to Heaven or Hell any longer. The moment would come when he was ready, when there was no hesitation or doubt—and whether it was a perfect moment would not matter. They would make it perfect. He shivered a little at the thought.

They finished their tea, undertook the washing-up together, and stowed the crockery. And then they kissed, their bodies pressed close, their mouths gentle but seeking. Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley's chest, and Crowley drew away, but slowly. "Back to the library?" he asked, rubbing his cheek against Aziraphale's temple.

Aziraphale nodded. "You?"

"The big garden," he replied. "Come outside for a while, when you're bored."

It was a silly thing to say. Aziraphale's ability to immerse himself in his books was well known between them. But he said, "I will. Probably before I get bored."

* * * 

The days grew warmer and longer. Crowley insisted on excursions to the coast, at least once a fortnight, which occasionally included Brighton, where Aziraphale could find specialty chocolates for Hannah, and, of course, for himself. There, too, the cinemas provided a lure for Crowley, who didn't mind if Aziraphale sometimes napped on his shoulder and had to be prodded awake at the end. They would venture farther along the coast, find a place to park the Bentley, and walk down to the pebble beach.

In the evenings, they made a habit of strolling the grounds of the cottage, the privacy and quiet a strange but wonderful respite after so many years in the city. The walled garden was coming to life more and more. Hannah's wildflower farm overflowed with a variety of flowers in a wonderful array of colors, all attended to by her ever industrious bees. If she was working her hives, they would wave and she would wave back.

It was a couple of months before Hannah invited them to tea. Aziraphale took chocolate and Crowley, a large, flowering plant. It was an amiable couple of hours, during which Hannah described some of the eccentricities of their cottage—she had lived there, she said, as a child with her brother until she went away to university. It had been bequeathed to both of them when their remaining parent had passed away. Hannah had chosen to move into the former stables next door, a long brick structure, with much of the original layout intact though beautifully updated and renovated. There were, she assured them seriously, no ghosts in either building.

When they went into the lounge for their post-meal coffee, her cats were allowed to wander in and out. Pox, the ginger gib that had taken a liking to Crowley, curled up on the jute rug at his feet, its chin propped on the toe of his boot. Another cat, a small cream tortoiseshell, leapt into Aziraphale's lap and balanced itself on his legs, staring up at him through clear, sea-green eyes. Hannah watched him for his reaction. He raised his brows at it, and the cat seemed to take that as permission to make itself at home. It began to purr as it formed a soft, pastel-colored wreath.

"That's Quinsy," Hannah said. Although she had not changed expression, Aziraphale sensed her approval. Taken with everything else he had noted in her house and in her manner, he wondered what kind of test he had just passed. He suspected there was more to it than his acceptance of her cat in his lap.

He smiled very slightly. "Inflammation of the tonsils, quinsy." 

She smiled back at him. "Quinsy has a distinctive voice."

After a while, their supply of polite conversation exhausted, Crowley, who had been mostly quiet throughout, suggested that it was time for them to leave. In concert, as if at a signal, both cats roused themselves and met on the floor, where they tussled briefly, before trotting out of the room. Aziraphale, rising, glanced down at his jacket and trousers. Not a single cat hair was to be seen.

Hannah walked out with them into her front garden, pointing out to Crowley where she intended to place his gift. He nodded his agreement. They both thanked her again and promised to return the neighborly ritual at their cottage soon.

"She is a witch," Aziraphale said, once they were on the other side of the hedge gate and at no risk of being overheard. He was holding a basket weighted heavily with jars of honey, homemade jam, and recently baked pastries.

"I think she's quite nice," Crowley said, looking a little shocked.

"Not a— A witch. Like Agnes Nutter."

"Oh." 

"There were some very powerful talismans and charms. And wards," Aziraphale went on. "I recognized them, because they are on our house, too. Made by the same practitioner."

"You never said." Crowley regarded him curiously.

Aziraphale shrugged. "No cause for alarm. Other than making my teeth itch. Ours are rather more robust protection spells, actually, and quite sophisticated."

"Should I ask in what way?"

"Well—Surprisingly enough, they are meant to guard against supernatural and ethereal beings."

"Me and you. On our house."

"Others _like_ me and you. Obviously, they have no—well, almost no—effect on us at all."

They walked in silence for some minutes. When they stepped onto the walkway leading to their back garden, Crowley relieved Aziraphale of the basket, which he had been fidgeting from one hand to the other over the last several yards. "And her wards, the ones on her house? The same?"

"No." Aziraphale sighed his bafflement. "General protection spells. But it was the same signature, I'm sure of it."

As they went in through the back door, Crowley asked, "Have you checked the honey? Maybe she's trying to poison us."

"I have, indeed. Four—or is it five?—jars worth now. I am walking proof that she is in no way trying to poison us."

"So, she's just a sweet old lady with millions of tiny poisonous assassins at her command—not to mention the furry ones—protecting us from—?" Crowley was struck with a thought. "Each other? Is that why you won't—?"

"Venomous is the proper word for her tiny assassins," Aziraphale said absently, as they entered the kitchen. He took the basket from Crowley and brushed his cheek with his lips. "And no. That's all me, as you well know."

Crowley relieved him of the basket yet again and pushed it to one side. He leaned closer, trapping Aziraphale between himself and the counter. He kissed him slowly and thoroughly, his hands working under his sweater vest only to be defeated by not being able to find the lower edge of his shirt. "Is your shirt tucked into your pants?" he asked, bemused.

"Keeps it tidy when I'm not wearing braces."

Crowley followed the bottom of the fabric into the soft warm silk of his underwear. Aziraphale gasped as Crowley's hand brushed against the newly sensitive part of him that was growing more sensitive by the day. Even that feather-light touch was almost overwhelming, sending waves of pure pleasure into his body, into his brain. "How about this?" Crowley murmured. His fingers delicately encircled him and even more delicately stroked him. "Is this okay?"

"Oh." Aziraphale managed a faint moan. "It is. But—" Breathing erratically, he buried his face against Crowley's shoulder. Closing his eyes, he said weakly, "But I'm not—"

Crowley stopped at once, even before Aziraphale thought to put his hand against the demon's chest, his usual signal for a halt. He carefully unwrapped his fingers and withdrew his hand from beneath Aziraphale's waistband. But he didn't release him entirely, his mouth warm on Aziraphale's throat and jaw, his cheek and the corner of his mouth, where he placed soft, gentling, apologetic kisses. After a couple of minutes, he exhaled heavily and framed Aziraphale's face between his hands. Resting his forehead against Aziraphale's brow, he said, "Sorry. I don't mean to rush you, angel."

Aziraphale opened his eyes and gazed up at him, smiling his thanks. Crowley cursed under his breath. He pulled Aziraphale into a crushing embrace and didn't let go for a long, long moment. When he did loosen his arms, Aziraphale tilted back his head, inviting another kiss. As their lips parted, Aziraphale asked, "Tea?"

Crowley agreed with a sheepish smile, "Tea."

A few hours later, very early the following morning, Aziraphale finished in the library. He wanted to go upstairs, to lie alongside Crowley, but he hesitated. While rinsing out his mug and putting it on the mat to drain, he thought about it. It wasn't fair to Crowley, who was more than ready to make love to him. His continued reluctance must be terribly frustrating. For that matter, he was beginning to wonder what he was waiting for, himself. Those moments in the kitchen played over and over in his mind and left him weak with desire. It hadn't been the fact that they were in the kitchen: he could easily have dragged Crowley onto the tiles and let him do what he would there—an image that raised his temperature and made his heart beat unsteadily. Which then led him to wonder, why did he believe that it must be Crowley who directed their lovemaking? Would that somehow absolve Aziraphale of taking part? Could his innate resistance have so simple a cause?

But—he continued to brood as he made his way upstairs—was it fair to lie close to him, to kiss him and be kissed, to hold him and be held, all a prelude to a temptation his demon was all too ready to surrender to? With some resolve—he inhaled deeply—he decided to let things progress as they would. He donned his nightshirt and climbed into bed. If Crowley should— His thoughts evaporated as Crowley sensed his presence. He breathed Aziraphale's name and gathered him into his arms. When they were tightly curled together, he kissed the back of Aziraphale's neck and nuzzled the tender skin beneath his ear. Surrounded by Crowley's warmth, luxuriating in the arms holding him, Aziraphale found it hard even to dither. Should he offer himself now? Or was that the wrong way to think about this? Should he plan Crowley's seduction instead? He doubted that Crowley would object, regardless of who instigated things. And then he felt Crowley relax against him. He had fallen back asleep.

Aziraphale forced himself to relax, too. There was no hurry. The moment he wanted, the one he would recognize when it came, would arrive soon. And if he had anything to do with it—which of course, he did—it would be quite soon.

* * * 

Summer was coming, and Crowley had discovered a nearby garden center. One morning, not long after their dinner with Hannah, he cajoled Aziraphale into accompanying him there. The drive was pleasant, the day was bright and warming fast and, except for a few dark clouds building on the horizon, the sky was high and clear. There would be a storm come the afternoon.

Aziraphale was convinced, later, that they inspected everything that boasted a leaf, little or large. Crowley didn't say much, but he procured a trolley at the entrance of the marquee that held, according to him, the "good stuff," and seemed intent on filling it. These items were to be added to the growing jungle in the conservatory, although one or two might end up in the walled garden. Aziraphale trailed after him, his hands caught behind his back. When asked his opinion, he would offer a "hm" or "hm hm," neither of which seemed to sway Crowley's eventual decision.

When Crowley's shopping was complete, they stopped in the tiny attached cafe, which sold novelty socks and stationery tat, among other odd things, some of which even had to do with gardening. Aziraphale's slice of cake was very good, and he shared it with Crowley while they enjoyed their tea. 

The clouds were developing dark, looming thunderheads by the time they arrived back at the cottage, and they could hear the distant boom of thunder. Aziraphale helped to unload the Bentley, including shaking out the tarps that had protected its seats and the boot. Crowley's recently acquired garden trolley made the ferrying of the plants to the conservatory relatively quick and easy, and they managed it in two loads. Rain was falling as Crowley dashed from the garage to the house. Aziraphale met him at the door with a towel.

They went their separate ways then, Aziraphale to his library and Crowley to the conservatory. As he opened another box, Aziraphale was distracted by the swift-moving rainstorm. It was over in a few minutes and drove northwesterly soon after, but he accomplished little during its passing, as he stood at the window with a book in his hand, watching the sky the entire time. He did enjoy a good rainstorm.

He concluded that tea was what he needed and went to the kitchen to brew a pot. When it was ready, he took two mugs to the conservatory. It really was becoming a rain forest in here, he thought. The large space was thick with all manner of vegetation. Aziraphale worked his way through the citrus grove and around the palms and rubber plants. He spotted Crowley through the ferns, near the outer door, which was ajar. He was crouched down, head bent forward, and, by his posture, focused on something on the floor in front of him.

A small movement caught Aziraphale's attention. A couple of feet away, Pox sat, head bent forward as well. The cat considered him briefly before returning its green gaze to Crowley, watching whatever it was that he was doing.

"You really are a murdering bastard, Pox," Crowley commented. He did not sound angry, just dismayed.

Craning forward, Aziraphale could finally see what was garnering so much interest. A mouse, recently killed by the look of it. As he watched, Crowley solemnly lifted the tiny grey form and laid it in his palm. He blew softly across its body, a light breath that barely stirred its whiskers. But the mouse jolted, a spasm that ran from the tops of its ears to the tip of its tail. It rolled over and uncertainly surveyed its surroundings. Crowley continued to hold it as it regained its sense of self. When it began to clean its whiskers, he set it just outside the door, which he pulled shut. To the cat, he said, "You get to stay here for a while. Murdering moggy." He gave the furry head a fond pat. The cat tolerated his touch for a moment, then meandered through the plants toward a patch of sunlight. There, it threw itself down on its side, eyes narrowed to slits, its tail slowly lashing.

One of the mugs slopped tea as Aziraphale set them, side by side, on the floor behind one of the flowering rocktrumpets. He walked quietly up behind Crowley and reached down to take his hand. Crowley's body jolted as badly as the mouse's had done. "Aziraphale!"

"Come with me," Aziraphale said evenly, and tugged him to his feet.

"Why?" Crowley's face had gone blank, the carefully innocent expression of someone who had been caught red-handed but would deny to the end that he was guilty of anything.

"I saw you," Aziraphale replied.

"But—"

"No buts."

"It was just—"

"Hush."

Crowley allowed himself to be pulled along through the kitchen, past the dining room, and up the stairs. "Aziraphale—" They had reached the landing leading to the first floor. Crowley suddenly seemed to realize where they were. "Why are we—?"

"Hush," Aziraphale said again.

He inexorably marched the bewildered demon into their bedroom, and stopped only when they stood next to the bed. He gestured at the mattress and Crowley, as distrustful as if he were about to be caned, sat.

Aziraphale could barely think past the love and lust clouding his mind. It had come on him all at once, a witch's brew of desire. Now that they were here, he feared that if he touched him, his tenuous control would shatter. He couldn't do that, would not allow himself to be no more than a creature in rut. But, his own body had turned traitor. His trousers were a painful constriction, his heart was leaping in his chest, and his throat had gone dry. He was an angel; how could this be possible?

Only a few seconds could have passed while these thoughts rampaged through his head. But during that time, Crowley must have seen the betraying expressions play like a tempest across his face. He caught Aziraphale's hands in his and said, simply, "Yes."

"Crowley—" he choked.

"Come on, angel." Crowley pulled him between his spread legs. He said, "Whatever you need."

* * * 

Aziraphale's eyes came open slowly, reluctantly. Lying with his head propped up on a couple of pillows, he was awash with lingering sensation, his nerve endings still firing with the aftereffects of the shock of completion. Crowley lay half on top of him. His forearms were flat on Aziraphale's chest, his chin resting on the back of one wrist. His eyes were over-large and strikingly yellow. "So—" he said, allowing the word to stretch into at least three syllables. "Resurrected mice?"

Unable to decide between a laugh or a snort, Aziraphale made a strange noise that combined both. Smiling, he began to card his fingers through Crowley's hair, idly enjoying the view afforded him: Crowley's back, from the spread of his shoulders—had Aziraphale made those pink marks?; to the delicious curve at the base of his spine; to the delightful mounds of his taut buttocks—those were definitely scratches, and Aziraphale winced; all the way to the backs of his thighs and his lower legs, bent now at the knees and crossed mid-air at the ankles. He considered apology, even knowing that Crowley would scoff. In any case, he was fairly certain that he bore traces of their lovemaking as well. Crowley continued implacably, "If I'd known that's all it took, I'd've carpeted the flagstones with them."

"Poor mice," Aziraphale murmured. "I expect Pox would happily have conspired with you." 

Crowley shifted up and over to rise up on an elbow. He kissed Aziraphale slowly, intimately. A long-fingered hand found a soft nipple and, with the tiniest tweak, made it hard. Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley's hand began to explore downward, slowly, slowly, gliding over Aziraphale's sternum, down the plain of his abdomen, lower still. He groaned softly as Crowley's fingers curled around him, loosely encasing him in his palm. He discovered that his entire body was as taut as a bowstring, and he was holding his breath, waiting.

Crowley brushed his lips against Aziraphale's ear. "Another go?" he asked.

A long sigh rushed out through Aziraphale's parted lips. "Oh, yes." But Crowley's hand was already moving and his mouth was at his throat, lightly sucking and biting. Aziraphale's thoughts shredded into heat and hunger. All he could do was ride the building tension, the growing pleasure, his fingers gripping Crowley's shoulders.

* * * 

It was still dark when Aziraphale crept out of bed the following morning. Crowley's hand dropped from his hip onto the mattress, and, even though he was still deeply asleep, his fingers made an instinctive effort to follow. He voiced a soft whuffling noise, turned over, and fell silent. Aziraphale dressed in the corridor outside their closed door, and carried his shoes down the stairs.

He was ravenous. Crowley had fed him throughout the evening, well into the darkest hours of the night, but they had expended a great deal of energy. Aziraphale felt himself flush. A very great deal of energy. He would make a plate of toast and a pot of tea for them both, and when Crowley was ready to waken, they could give the bedroom an airing and remake the bed, which was, at the moment, a mess of crumpled sheets.

As he put the bread slices under the grill, he thought about what Crowley had said: _If I'd known that's all it took, I'd've carpeted the flagstones with them_. What was it that Crowley had done that had finally cut through his reluctance? He had resurrected animals before, probably innumerable ducks, rabbits, and birds through the centuries, and Aziraphale had never once responded as he had yesterday. But this time— Was it his tenderness in the way he had held the mouse as it suffered the shock of renewed life? Or the careful way he had moved it outside, away from further harm? Not to mention his affectionate treatment of Pox: not anger, just acceptance of the cat's nature? No, Aziraphale's reaction hadn't been the result of any one thing. Demons weren't supposed to be nice, they weren't supposed to care about other creatures. They most certainly were not meant to love angels. But Crowley—his demon—was and did.

Still, none of that should have accounted for the shocking assault of love and wanting that had overtaken him. Crowley's gentleness, his tenderness were not new to him. But at that moment, Aziraphale had been blinded with a need to cherish him, to make love to him, to reward him for the kindness shown to a hapless mouse—to take him for his own.

Thinking of yesterday reminded Aziraphale of Hannah's cat. They had locked it in the conservatory. It wouldn't suffer unduly if left there for another little while. Since it had taken to shadowing Crowley, dishes full of water and food had appeared in a corner near the door—no doubt the reason for the mouse population. And, given all the half-open bags of potting soil, its other needs had probably been met as well.

Aziraphale sighed. He set the plate on the counter, switched off the grill and the kettle, and went to the conservatory door. It was was warm and muggy as always. He walked through the citrus grove and the ferns and palms, to the open area near the exterior door. In the middle of the floor was Pox, a small grey form lying still beneath its paws. "Pox," Aziraphale said, in his most reproving tones.

The cat expressionlessly watched his approach. When Aziraphale was a few feet away, the cat languidly rose and sat on its haunches. Aziraphale picked up the mouse, startling a little when it unfurled in his palm, to all appearances undamaged. He carried it to the door and shooed it away. "Let us go and see your owner, shall we?" Holding the door wide, he waited until the cat had sashayed out onto the flagstones, before closing it behind them. The cat took the lead, trotting across the stones and lawn.

They passed through the grove of beech trees, wending their way beneath the rustling leaves. They came out the other side and into the small clearing which gave way to the hedge gate. The cat leapt onto the hedge and waited for Aziraphale, who followed behind at a more sedate pace. On the other side, they were once again under the canopy of beech trees. It was cool, the soft morning air slowly heating with the rising of the sun. Before long, he was standing in front of Hannah's door, his hand poised to knock, when it belatedly occurred to him just how early it was. The cat sat at his feet, staring up at the door. "Perhaps I should leave it for later," Aziraphale whispered.

The door opened. Hannah stood before him, dressed comfortably in a man's shirt, loose on her lanky frame, and threadbare denim trousers. She gazed at him, as expressionlessly as her cat, but said, friendly enough, "Good morning, Mr Fell."

Aziraphale lowered his fist, chagrined. "I do apologize for the hour. I'm an early riser, you see, and I just didn't—"

"It's quite all right. Please, do come in." She waved him in. "And, you," she said, scooping up the cat, "are an untrustworthy toad. I was worried about you." She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "There's tea." She smiled at Aziraphale's spark of interest. "And rolls just out of the oven."

"I am your servant," he said. Hearing himself, he imagined no one, in this day and age could sound more inane. But the woman's smile widened, and she walked companionably with him into the friendly warmth of her kitchen.

It smelled of heaven—or, as heaven should smell, Aziraphale thought—the scent of freshly baked bread an incomparable comfort in good times and bad. At the small table she indicated, he pulled out her chair, and when she was seated, took up the chair opposite her. A wide bay window ran along the wall beside them, its two side sash windows open to the morning. In the distance, Aziraphale could see beehives and the top edge of the wildflower field, On the ancient wooden table, its surface scarred and scratched, there were open jars of Hannah's own jams and honey, as well as a bowl of pale butter. She caught his look and said, "It is fresh. But I use a food processor. My days of churning are well behind me."

"It will be no less delicious for that, I'm sure," Aziraphale said, making a note to himself to ask Crowley what a food processor was and whether they had one. A moment later, he found his prediction to be true. The butter was creamy and rich, and, with a dollop of strawberry jam and a tiny swirl of honey, elevated the roll to a distinction he had never encountered in London. Paris, perhaps; it was hard to beat Parisian bakes. But this— "Delectable!" he said, after washing it down with a mouthful of tea.

Hannah nodded her thanks. "So why are you out and about at such an hour, Mr Fell?"

"I am sorry for the imposition," he said. "I should have thought—"

She waved aside his apology. "Good company is always welcome," she said. "It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with my rude moggy?" She cast an affectionate look at Pox, who was sitting next to Quinsy. They were grooming each other.

"Well, yes," he said delicately, "it would."

"I see that he's taken quite a shine to your husband," Hannah said. "Has he made a pest of himself?"

"I—he's not—" Aziraphale swallowed. "Not to me, he hasn't. Nor to," he faltered, "Crowley." The cat moved his head, the full power of those bright green eyes turned on him. "But he has been a bit of a scourge on our local mouse population."

Hannah's brows went up. "You don't mind the little nuisances?"

To his surprise, Aziraphale liked her for calling them nuisances and not something worse. "We have our own way of dealing with them."

"I see." She bent her eyes on the roll she was spreading with butter. "So you want me to keep him away?" 

"Oh, no! I think Crowley is fond of him, and I don't mind him at all. Just," he knew he was about to sound like an idiot, but if Hannah was what he believed her to be, her understanding would be total, "might you have a word with him? About the killing?"

A slow, curious expression came over the woman's face, one of disbelief and wonder and, yes, amusement. She looked away toward the two cats, which were sitting now side by side, their tails curled around their feet, attentive. "No bother at all, Mr Fell," she said, tilting her head back toward him. Her eyes were sparkling.

"Please, call me Aziraphale."

She nodded. "A very old and noble name."

"Yes," he agreed and added more butter to his roll. After a few minutes more of quiet conversation, he began to rise from his chair. "I have taken up far too much of your morning. Thank you." He gestured toward the table as he rose. "I have never eaten better."

"You must take some back to your—" she hesitated. In the pantry she found and drew out an empty basket. As she began to fill it, she went on, "Or perhaps I misunderstood. The way Tony speaks about you, I just assumed—"

A sudden warmth suffused Aziraphale's entire being. "No, no," he said. "You're quite right. We just don't … bruit it about."

Hannah handed him the basket. "I understand. Well, thank you again for returning my delinquent. I really was worried about him. None of my cats are allowed to stay out all night." She ambled beside him to the door. "And I do promise to have a talk with him about his behavior."

"You're very kind, Hannah," Aziraphale said. "Our, er, mice thank you, too."

She laughed.

"And, I did mean to ask— Would you like to join us for tea tomorrow evening? Around six o'clock?"

"Oh." She tilted her head, and he could see that she was pleasantly surprised. "Why, yes." She gave him a warm smile. "That would be lovely." She thought for a moment. "Shall I bring anything?"

"No. It'll be simple fare." He said this with a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I'm still learning to use our kitchen."

"Well, I'm looking forward to it."

He flicked a parting smile in her direction, and started back to the cottage. He felt a deep tug, somewhere under his breastbone, pulling him back to Crowley. Crowley! What would he say to having Hannah over? Especially now, when they were— Well, they could keep their hands off each other for an entire evening. He felt a frustrated stirring as he thought about what they would not be doing tomorrow evening. But there were hours and hours until then ….

Back in the cottage, he sensed that Crowley was still sleeping. He put together a tray with tea things, rolls, honey, and jam, along with the necessary cutlery. He climbed the stairs quietly, and crept into the bedroom on silent feet. He set the tray on the chest at the foot of the bed. 

Crowley took a deep breath, at the same time sending a questing hand across the mattress. He sat up all at once, the duvet falling away from his bare chest. His hair was tousled, heavy on his forehead and the back of his neck. His eyes flicked round the room until they found Aziraphale, who stood as if pinned to the spot.

Lust flared inside him, spreading through every inch of his body, like a flood of molten heat. Aziraphale absently flicked his fingers toward the tray. "Breakfast?"

Crowley held out his hand. "Come here." His voice, husky with desire, melted what was left of Aziraphale's insides. He went, the air cool against his sudden nakedness. There was a faint rustle of fabric: that was his clothes, tumbling to the floor. "You were right," Aziraphale said, a little shakily, as Crowley's arms closed around him. "Definitely Heathcliff."

* * * 

Mid-morning, they took the tray downstairs and ate in the kitchen nook. Aziraphale was grateful for the bounty Hannah had provided, his appetite having been recharged in the previous few hours. As he smeared Hannah's butter on a roll, he told Crowley about Pox and Hannah, and the invitation he had made for dinner. Crowley seemed not at all perturbed. Aziraphale apologized anyway: "I should have waited to see if you agreed."

Crowley gave his head a quick shake and bit into a roll. "Bet these were even better when they were fresh."

"I did try."

"Complaining?"

"Are you?"

Crowley laughed. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes. 

"I—I suppose I should warn you." Aziraphale gave Crowley a helpless look.

"Hm?"

"Hannah asked if you are my husband." Crowley's hand froze an inch from his mouth. He looked at Aziraphale, his expression impassive, and waited. The words came out in a tumble. "I said—well, I said, yes."

Crowley popped the last bite into his mouth and chewed.

Aziraphale tried to smile. "Just thought you should know. In case it comes up tomorrow." He rose and collected their empty plates, and took them to the sink.

Crowley stood, too, and carried the jam tray and the butter bowl to the counter. Then he pulled Aziraphale into his arms, his lanky warmth pressed all down Aziraphale's back, and hooked his chin onto his shoulder. When he bit his earlobe, Aziraphale didn't even have room to squirm.

"Need any help?" Crowley asked. He kissed the tip of his ear and gave it a little lick, a balm after the sharpness of his teeth, and let him go.

"No." He started the water running. As the door connected to the conservatory swung open, he called out lightly, "Watch out for traumatized mice."

Crowley's chuckle floated on the air behind him, and then was cut off entirely by the closing of the door.

Touching a finger to his earlobe, Aziraphale decided that Crowley's reaction, however much a non-reaction, was preferable to anger. He took a deep, centering breath, and compelled his mind toward his plans for the day.

* * * 

His plans for the day were basic: library, reading, library, reading. Not necessarily in that order. He was deep in a book when Crowley came in. "What time is it?" Aziraphale asked. He did not resist when Crowley mumbled something and took the book out of his hand. And he didn't object when Crowley pulled him up into his arms and kissed him. And when Crowley made love to him, he forgot about his books completely.

"Hm," Aziraphale purred. They were spooned together on the sofa, Crowley wrapped around him, their legs entangled. Crowley was kissing his shoulder, his mouth warm against bare flesh.

"We should get rings," Crowley said.

For a moment, the words made no sense—even though Aziraphale had spent much of the last few hours quietly stewing over Crowley's lack of response to his confession. He had expected something. A joke. Denial. Remote as the possibility was, even acceptance. But that indifference had left him feeling just a little discomfited. Even though he knew better: Crowley loved him. Calling him husband would not change that. So he spoke before his brain had quite worked out what Crowley meant. "Rings?"

"And a marriage certificate." Aziraphale felt the demon's chest stop moving. Crowley was holding his breath.

"But we—" A small, unintentional laugh slipped out. "We're not—"

"Human?" Crowley mouthed the nape of his neck again. It sent chills down Aziraphale's spine. "We bought a house together, angel," he reminded him. "Be easy getting married, compared to that."

Aziraphale lifted Crowley's hand and kissed his palm. "In that case, yes."

"Rings, then?" Crowley regained control of his hand and started it downward. As he took hold, his fingers forming a gentle sheath, he began to flex his hips, a gliding, almost probing motion that made the breath catch in Aziraphale's throat. Between the two loving assaults, Aziraphale floated on a wave of renewed passion, mindless, raw, and perfect. But before he lost himself entirely, he sighed a single word: "Yes."

* * * 

The next day dawned warm and promised to reach unpleasantly high temperatures by late afternoon. Aziraphale spent the morning in the cool comfort of his library, thoroughly disinclined to turn his attention to the evening's preparations. Over a light lunch Crowley listened to his grumbling about the heat and the menu, excused himself as Aziraphale was collecting plates, and disappeared into the conservatory.

Continuing to mutter to himself, Aziraphale washed and dried alone, then spent a couple of minutes in front of the open refrigerator, examining its contents and pondering whether a salad might be the better way to go, and not coincidentally savoring the cool air pouring forth. Begrudgingly, he moved on to the pantry and stared at its unforthcoming contents, still with no sense of inspiration. He had just decided that now would be a good time for a fresh pot of tea, when Crowley shouted his return from the front hallway.

He came in carrying several bags bearing the local Waitrose logo and set them on the counter. "Let's go with this," he said. Out of the bags he presented a small tray of cold cuts; another with a variety of cheeses; still another filled with fruits, already prepared. There was also a paper bag containing a pair of recently baked demi baguettes. From the last bag, accompanied by a silly fanfare, appeared a tray of brightly colored fairy cakes, each one a different flavor, each beautifully decorated.

"Crowley, you're an angel!" The words, spoken with utter thoughtlessness, rang suddenly and loudly in his own ears. Aziraphale raised his shocked eyes to Crowley's face, only to find himself the object of the demon's unconcealed affection.

"Was," he said tersely. "Once." He started stowing the food in the refrigerator. "Get moving, Aziraphale," he said. "I mean to have my wicked way with you. In the big garden. Under the oak tree in the corner."

A jolt of an entirely different kind of heat surged up. "That's rather specific," Aziraphale mused.

"But it'll be here, on the floor, if you make me wait too long."

Aziraphale handed across a couple of the trays. "The grass would be kinder," he remarked, pleased by how normal his voice sounded. "There will be, of course, a rug?"

Crowley shoved the last sealed tray onto a shelf, paying scant heed as to whether it was squashing anything else, and shut the refrigerator door. "Everything you need," he said, and bent his head to take Aziraphale's mouth in a deep, searching kiss that Aziraphale met with equal fervor. "Angel." The slow, intimate way he spoke the single word fired Aziraphale's nerve endings with spiking anticipation. "Kitchen or garden?" His voice was so low and rough, Aziraphale imagined that he could feel it reverberate in his own chest.

Aziraphale grabbed his hand and jerked him toward the hallway. "Library," he wheezed. "It's closer."

* * * 

Hannah arrived at six o'clock, on the dot. Crowley had met her at the hedge gate, a happy circumstance as she had brought with her a very large, rather cumbersome wreath. Crafted with the help of some friends as a belated housewarming gift, it was formed of grape vines overlain with a variety of expertly dried flowers and herbs, and woven throughout with scented ribbons, in shades of brown and dark green. For so rustic a thing, it was strikingly beautiful—but perhaps more interestingly, as Aziraphale immediately noticed, it practically shimmered with magic. She recommended it for one of their high-ceilinged walls. They thanked her with genuine appreciation before Crowley took it inside for safeguarding.

Crowley produced a cool, sweet-tasting Prosecco and fussed over some last minute preparations, encouraging Aziraphale to walk Hannah through the cottage, so she could see what they had done with it. She nodded her appreciation at their choices of furniture, raised her brows at some of their priceless artwork, and seemed quite frankly stunned at Aziraphale's library. Crowley had joined them by then, and merely shook his head with affection as Aziraphale told her that it might be years before he had everything on the shelves—he was enjoying reviewing and rereading his collection too much to hurry.

Working as a team, they ferried the various dishes for their informal meal outside, and organized everything on the table behind the cottage. Beneath the welcome shade of the ancient oak that protected them from the western sun, Crowley poured a Riesling into burgundy glasses. They toasted each other's company and, without ceremony, tucked in.

Aziraphale had earlier prepared a salad of fresh greens, tomatoes, and cucumbers, all picked from Crowley's garden. He bragged about Crowley's prowess as a gardener; in response, Crowley eyed him knowingly. He had suggested it after they had completed their business on the sofa in the library—once coherent thought had returned. 

Later, as they drank coffee and ate slices of fairy cake, they shared amusing stories. Hannah recounted shamelessly scurrilous incidents involving her brother when they were children. And Aziraphale, flushed with wine and good food, spoke of his bookshop, unaware that the glow in his face betrayed how very much he had loved it. He felt Crowley's eyes on him and feared that he might be veering into the maudlin, and so described at length encounters with clients who had mistaken his place for the so-called adult bookstore next door, and how much effort had been needed to convince them that they were indeed in the wrong shop. Hannah's laughter, an infectious deep-in-the-throat chortle, assured him that he had struck exactly the right chord. Crowley was less inclined to participate, but when Hannah pressed, he cobbled together a few observations of the crazed goings-on in London, witnessed on a daily basis—as funny as they were heartbreaking.

The evening grew late and the sky, cloudless and high, became pricked with the brilliance of stars. Hannah rose, thanking them in her gracious way for the lovely evening. Aziraphale exchanged a quick, speaking glance with Crowley, and rose with her.

"I did all the work before," he said, which was patently untrue, "so he gets to clean up. Let me walk you home."

"Good night, Hannah," Crowley called after them.

They were met at the hedge gate by a small cadre of cats, all staring up at Hannah with diverse, but still potent degrees of accusation. Holding the gate open, Aziraphale indicated that Hannah should go through ahead of him. "It's dark," he said. "I'll squire you to your door."

"You have the manners of a man of a different generation," Hannah said, and her words were clearly meant as a compliment. Two cats swarmed ahead, one flanked her on the left, and the only two which Aziraphale recognized, Pox and Quinsy, fell into step behind her. He took care not to tread on a cat, as he drew the gate to behind him. 

"Manners are ageless, my dear," Aziraphale replied in a genteel tone. 

Hannah laughed. "You wouldn't know it, the way so many people act these days."

"Yes. Rudeness is rampant in London. And, you know, I don't miss that at all."

They arrived outside her well-lit door amid a welter of cats, all noisily expressing their advanced state of starvation. Hannah, ignoring them, extended her hand, and Aziraphale took it. Cradling it between both of his, he asked, "Why the wards, Hannah? What are you trying to protect us from?"

Her eyes gleamed. "I told them you would notice."

"'Them'?"

"My fellow practitioners. Those of my circle."

"Your coven," Aziraphale translated.

"Yes. We have sensed … powers coming together. We believe they mean to act against you."

"Crowley and me."

"Yes."

He released her fingers and sighed, a little querulously. "Powers?"

Hannah folded her arms across her chest, one hand over each breast, a Medieval-looking gesture. "Like yours." She lowered her arms to her sides.

"Ah."

The soft light from the outside lamp smoothed her wrinkles as she smiled. "Thank you for not denying it."

"Hannah." His tone was gentle, but there was a warning in it, and he saw her respond—to it and to him—with the same awe and uncertainty as humans had always done when he revealed even the tiniest fraction of his angelic nature. "If you think you know the source of our power, how do you imagine you could ever stop it?"

She had taken an instinctive half step back. Aziraphale gathered his humanity like a cloak, so as to soothe her; it had not been his intention to frighten. She summoned a brave smile and raised her chin. She reminded him of the banduri: tall, reed-like, hair the color of wheat and cloud, her eyes the mutable green of the sea. She would have defended herself and her people against the Romans, and, after them, the Christians. She said with wry humor, "We would not be so foolish. Our paltry wards have the strength of the veil, not concealment. But they will give early warning, should one of your kind approach. So that you may have a chance to defend yourselves."

Aziraphale was truly baffled. "Why would you believe us worthy of defending?"

She seemed baffled by his question, in turn. "The descendant of Agnes Nutter said that you—you and Anthony—are good. She says," she continued intensely, "that you risked your very existence to save—" her hand made a broad, sweeping gesture, "—all of us."

Aziraphale let out a quiet snort, but he did not disabuse her of this notion. "How is Anathema?" he asked.

"Still in Tadfield, though she says her mother would like her to come home. Keeping an eye on a young man reputed to have extraordinary gifts."

Aziraphale raised his brows, startled. "Oh." He thought about it, then gave her a reassuring look. "I believe—I hope—that is no longer the case. But," he nodded to himself, "vigilance is never unwise." He smiled. "Good night, Hannah."

She saw that he was going to wait until she entered her house, so she nodded her acquiescence, unlocked the door, and went inside, her furry entourage on her heels. Except for Pox and Quinsy, who stared up at Aziraphale as if they wanted a word with him. 

"Well, I'm going home." Aziraphale kept his voice hushed because the night was deepening and he had no wish to disturb it. "You two can have the rest of the evening off." He turned into the dark and headed back to the cottage. He heard the door open and close again behind him.

The kitchen was spotless, and all the leftovers were in the refrigerator. Aziraphale helped himself to a slice of ham and another of cheese. He rooted around until he found the remains of the Prosecco, which he sipped from the bottle in order to spare the glassware. Happily replete, he made his way upstairs, switching off lights as he went.

Crowley appeared to be asleep, one arm and leg exposed to the air, the rest of the duvet in a crush around him. Earlier, when Aziraphale had talked about the bookshop, he had caught a hint of doubt in Crowley's expression, as if he worried that Aziraphale clung to regret. If that's what he thought, he was mistaken.

He changed out of his clothing and carefully hung them on his side of the huge closet. Unfolding his nightshirt, his fingertips snagged on the silk, and he made note to himself that he must have his hands seen to. He could do it himself, of course. But he liked the decadence of a decent manicure. He shimmied into the voluminous folds, doused the remaining lights, and padded to the side of the bed. 

With one knee on the edge of the mattress, Aziraphale leaned forward and peeled the duvet out of Crowley's hands, exposing him to his gaze. Crowley mumbled something and rolled onto his back, one arm reaching out to Aziraphale's side of the bed. He was vulnerable in his nakedness, Aziraphale thought, and so beautiful. For a long moment, he simply stared. His eyes roamed over him, from the riot of uncombed hair, the sleep-relaxed face—mouth slightly open, exposing the wide lower lip—the angular chest and hips, the strong arms and legs. The part of him that lay at rest on his belly, long and lax. Aziraphale climbed onto the bed, taking care not to rock the mattress any more than was necessary. Bracing himself with hands on either side of Crowley's hips, he bent forward and nuzzled him, and then languorously sucked him into his mouth.

Crowley came awake with slow, groaning urgency. His breathing quickly turned erratic as Aziraphale used all of his newly learned skills in the pleasuring of his … husband. He meant to make it last, to spark every nerve ending with equal delight. But Crowley's response was too quick, too excruciatingly heightened, to sustain the moment. Far too soon, he was clutching Aziraphale's shoulders, his name rough on his lips, his body trembling helplessly.

Aziraphale rested his cheek on Crowley's still twitching belly, liking the weight of his hand on his head, those long fingers buried in his hair. After a while Aziraphale allowed himself to be coaxed up alongside him and taken into his arms.

"Hm," Crowley said. His fingers were gliding down Aziraphale's back, smooth on the silk of his nightshirt. They paused on the ridge of his hip, and there began to gather the silk higher and higher. Soon the hem hitched up past knees, thighs, and then waist. Aziraphale shifted a little to give him better access, and let his eyes fall shut when Crowley reached down to stroke him, slowly up, slowly down. "So," Crowley murmured, "what did you talk about with Hannah?"

"Uh … the wards. I asked her—" He lost the thread as Crowley urged him closer, kissing him as though he had never kissed him before. It was strange to be held as if he were some kind of treasure, while being thoroughly ravished. Crowley rose up on his side, and his hand began to wander as his mouth moved down the column of Aziraphale's throat, each touch, kiss and caress, leaving fire in its wake.

"The wards?" Crowley asked, his voice as dark as the night. His lips were on Aziraphale's breastbone, his breath hot on his skin. He was moving gradually downward, tasting, licking, noisily kissing, and then moving lower still. 

Aziraphale had lost the power of speech, Crowley's attentions having swept him into that place where only pleasure mattered—pleasure and Crowley. His body was learning to respond with frightening intensity. He might as well be human for all that he could control himself. When Crowley took him into his mouth, he felt as though he might shatter. All rational thought abandoned him, and all he could know, on an animal level, was the rhythmic pull and release of Crowley's mouth, the grasp of his hands, bruising, where they held his hips. 

He lasted scarcely longer than Crowley had before him, seemingly discorporating for a few, piercingly sweet moments. And then there was movement as Crowley pushed himself onto hands and knees and crawled up Aziraphale's body. He kissed Aziraphale's mouth, rubbed his nose against his cheek, and sprawled on top of him. Aziraphale closed him in his arms and held him tightly. 

"The wards?" Crowley reminded him, sounding sleepy.

"Uh. Right." He struggled to draw his thoughts into order. "Hannah's wards are meant to be a sort of early warning system," he said, though it had taken real effort to remember what they had been talking about.

"Best kind, if you're going to have a warning system." Crowley was making snuffling noises against Aziraphale's shoulder. "She tell you what the warning's for? Plague of locusts? Pestilence? Volcanic eruption?"

Groggy himself, Aziraphale replied, "A gathering of powers."

"Huh. Powers."

"Like ours."

Crowley placed a kiss in the hollow formed by Aziraphale's collarbones at the base of his throat. He yawned. "Not exactly news, is it."

Sleep, which had long been his nemesis, was growing irresistible. "No." It wasn't news. But perhaps the warning, whatever form it took, would be appreciated, should such a time come.

* * * 

Late the following afternoon, Aziraphale heard Crowley's footsteps enter the library. "Aziraphale!" he called.

"Here." He was sitting in the box seat window, reading, enjoying what was indisputably the best light of the day—when there were no clouds—as the sun filled that corner of the room with a lovely, almost pastel glow.

Crowley came around the freestanding bookcases, a sheaf of papers in hand. He removed his boots and sat at the opposite end of the window seat, sliding his stocking feet underneath Aziraphale's bent knees. He held up the papers.

"What's that?" While speaking, Aziraphale laid his marker between the pages, closed the book, and slid it between his leg and the window. He took the papers from Crowley's fingers, finding among them a passport. He quickly flicked through everything, exclaiming under his breath, "Oh!" They were the forms and instructions needed for getting married.

He gave Crowley a long, measuring look as he set the pages in his lap and opened the passport. He found his own face staring back at him. "That is rather a nice photo," he remarked. But then his brows rose in startlement. "Arthur? Zachariah?" He peered at the birth date, then screwed his face up as he did a quick calculation in his head. "As old as that!" Before his eyes, the date rolled back five years. His expression lightened. "Thank you." Crowley gazed fondly at him. Feeling the color rising in his cheeks, Aziraphale said, "Can't I just be Aziraphale? Aziraphale Fell? You and I know it's redundant, but I'd rather you spoke my own name when we exchange our vows." Saying those words out loud gave him pause. Meanwhile, the name in the passport changed. "Ah—it appears that I missed my birthday: June 8."

"I can alter it," Crowley assured him.

"Not necessary. Aziraphale Fell. That should satisfy the institutional authorities. Would you change place of birth from London to St Albans? That's where I came in to the country originally, though, of course, it was known as Verulamium, then."

"Done," Crowley said, and Aziraphale mumbled a "thank you," as the information updated before his eyes. He scanned the rest of the document, noting to himself that the passport was good for another six years. "What about you?" he asked, on a sudden thought. "Is 'J' still the extent of your middle name?"

"Hadn't thought of that. What do you suggest?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale's eyes lit up. "Julius. You were quite an impressive Roman."

Crowley made a clicking noise, the kind people make when ticking an invisible box. "Julius it is."

Aziraphale put the passport down on the seat next to the book and took up the pages that he had been handed. _"Notice of marriage, particulars relating to the persons to be married,"_ he read aloud. "Anthony J. Crowley, date of birth, October 13—perhaps you should change the year of your birth to match mine? You are certainly not older than me."

"Just did—on my passport."

"Ah." He returned to the page. "Let's see: sex, male; condition, single; occupation, hobby gardener—" Aziraphale snorted. "Period of residence, correct; church or other building, etc., in which marriage is to be solemnized—that's our local register office, yes?"

"Yes."

He continued. "Nationality, British; and our local district of residence. And what do you have for me, hm?" His eyes skipped down to the next line. "Male; single; antiquarian book specialist; British; period of residence, tick; and, of course, our place of residence." He skimmed the following statements. "No impediments to our marriage; we've been in our respective residences for at least seven days; both over the age of eighteen—" He grinned rakishly. "Eighteen!" Crowley tipped his head, mirroring his amusement. "If we are lying, we could be prosecuted for perjury; and if there is an impediment which we are not owning up to, we could likewise be subject to criminal penalties. Goodness." Crowley made a "move along" gesture, as his feet distractingly wiggled beneath Aziraphale's thighs.

Aziraphale slipped the page to the bottom of the stack. "Goodness," he said again, glancing at the next sheet. He raised his head. 

Crowley said, "Memorize that."

"And this is?"

"Things you should know about me. When we meet with the registrar, she'll interview us together; then she'll interview us separately."

"To make sure we're telling the truth."

"Yes."

He held the paper higher toward the light. "Your father's name is Lucifer Crowley. Deceased." He couldn't help an arch glance. "You wish." He found his place again. "His occupation was—I don't think you can say 'troublemaker,' actually. How about political dissident?" He thought a moment. "Though, can one make a living that way?"

Crowley laughed. "One can, if one has the right connections. And occupation isn't always a source of income. Think artist or writer."

Bemused, Aziraphale persisted. "But, won't they check up?"

"Already in the appropriate databases," Crowley replied, giving his head a little toss of accomplishment.

"So—" Aziraphale drew the word out. "My father. Godfrey Fell, also deceased, professor of philology, Cambridge." He nodded his approval. "We met five years ago in St James' Park. Feeding the ducks." A crooked smile touched his lips. "I wonder if they miss us, the ducks."

"Of course they do."

After another moment's consideration, Aziraphale suggested, "We should probably know when our respective paters passed away." He shrugged. "When I was three. Run over by a negligent driver, on the way home from the pub."

Clearly enjoying himself, Crowley said, "Right. Sad old Lucifer. He went toes up when I was—" His brows came together. "Twelve. You'd think it had something to do with his line of work, but he died in his sleep. Liver, they said." He skimmed a fingertip under his chin. "Any other ideas?"

"Curious that there's nothing about one's mother. We could make up some very entertaining stories about _her_. Ah! Religion." He made a face. "Something other than atheist, of course. But it doesn't seem right to narrow it down to one."

"Humanist?" Crowley floated.

"Yes!" Aziraphale took in a deep breath. "Right. I'll have no trouble remembering any of this." And then he observed wryly, "What a pack of lies."

Crowley made a sharp noise. With some heat, he said, "Well, we can hardly say that we met over six thousand years ago; that we were created, not born; that our occupations are angel and demon; and that our father is God—she might take exception to that." He scowled ferociously. "The electrical bill showing our proof of residence is genuine." 

"Crowley—"

"And us." Crowley's eyes were flashing. "We're not a lie."

Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley's knees and began to knead them. He agreed matter-of-factly, "Indeed, we are not." Crowley's vehemence had surprised him. "It just struck me as rather outlandish that we face prosecution for perjury, but, if we were to tell the truth, the registrar would undoubtedly laugh in our faces. And, possibly, recommend sectioning."

Crowley was still frowning. He covered Aziraphale's hands with his own. "Angel—"

"Crowley." Aziraphale leaned forward and pecked a kiss on the back of each of his hands. "How long do we have to wait?"

Reluctantly placated, Crowley replied, "At least a month. And then we have up to a year before applying again."

"Do we have an appointment with the registrar?"

"Tomorrow. If that's—?"

"Fine." Without waiting for Crowley to say more, Aziraphale moved to the next page. He left one hand as reassurance on Crowley's knee. "Our vows?"

Crowley sighed. "There are a couple of things that are required during the—as they say—solemnization, either by statement or in response to the registrar: No impediments; I take you as my wedded husband. The rest we can make up ourselves." He fixed Aziraphale with a beady eye. "Something simple."

Aziraphale laughed. "These examples look very un-elaborate. I'm sure we'll manage." He tapped his lips with a finger. "And what of our honeymoon?"

"Thought I'd leave that to you." He rubbed his palms down Aziraphale's knees to his thighs. "London? We could have dinner at the Ritz, spend a couple of nights in the Dorchester. Or we could go to Italy. Or Thailand. Or—"

Aziraphale freed his legs and scooted nearer, settling onto Crowley's lap. Crowley gathered him close, the window seat more than wide enough to accommodate them. After a leisurely kiss, Aziraphale murmured, "Or we could make love in the big garden, under the moon."

Crowley kissed him again. "Might be chilly. Mid-September."

"Hm," Aziraphale murmured, savoring his mouth. "I trust you'll keep me warm."

After shifting Aziraphale over onto the seat beside him, Crowley laced their fingers together, and got to his feet. He raised his brows, eyes very dark with glinting highlights. "Practice run?" He pulled Aziraphale onto the floor, neither of them paying attention to the book and papers that toppled onto the cushion behind them.

"Yes, please."

* * * 

"That was easy enough," Crowley remarked. He was driving up the High Street, the nose of the Bentley heading away from the General Register Office.

Aziraphale was looking out his window, watching the city center go by. His hand was resting on the back of Crowley's neck, absently stroking his hair. "We have the venue, we have the date, and the registrar. What else?" He turned his gaze on Crowley, who briefly met his eyes.

"Rings."

"Yes, of course! I rang up Catherine earlier this morning and she gave me a couple of names in London." Aziraphale sighed. "Should do that soon, in case they need to be sized."

"Appointments?"

"Recommended. Shall I call when we get back to the cottage?"

"Yep." He pointed at a group of buildings ahead on the right side of the road. "Is that it?"

"Baker's, yes. I'm looking forward to a proper trim." 

Crowley pulled the car into the small, empty roundabout, drove two thirds of the way round, and stopped long enough for Aziraphale to hop out. "Back in an hour."

"Right." Aziraphale stepped away so Crowley could drive off, watching until the car disappeared in traffic. He blinked once or twice, and gave himself a stern shake. The morning meeting with the registrar had proven unexpectedly emotional for him. The registrar herself had been friendly but brisk. After a casual but probing conversation with them together, she had spoken with Aziraphale and Crowley, singly, her quiet but kind manner and professionalism easing the nerves that Aziraphale had not known he'd had. He had replied easily and naturally to her questions, as, obviously, had Crowley.

It was while they were signing the requisite forms, and the registrar had explained the next steps in the process, that he had begun to realize the magnitude of what they were doing. He, an angel, and Crowley, a demon, were getting married. He had been assailed by a rush of hysteria mingled with exhilaration. It was madness. Crowley had seemed to sense that something was going on, and had cast a quick, steadying look his way. Aziraphale had nodded back, taken several deep breaths, and, with a slightly silly smile regained some measure of calm as he had signed _Aziraphale Fell_ one more time.

After that, there had been the formality of booking their choice of room—a space that could accommodate far too many people, but which was much nicer than the more appropriately sized, so-called intimate room. It offered a view out onto the grounds through wide french doors, which were surrounded by windows on either side, guaranteeing light whether it came from leaden skies or sunny bright ones. That would be their view as they said their vows. Then it had been a matter of arranging the registrar's services, which had been dutifully recorded in the schedule book. A hand shake later, they had been back on their way. Trotting down the steps to the drive, Crowley had slipped his hand into Aziraphale's and given it a squeeze. Aziraphale, gripping it tightly back, had held on during the short walk to the car park. He could still feel the warmth of Crowley's hand now, even as he stood alone on the pavement.

Aziraphale brought himself back to the moment and made his watchful way across the road to the salon, where he had an appointment for a long overdue manicure and hair trim. It seemed ridiculously mundane compared to what they had just done, but he was looking forward to it. After that, they would have lunch. He was smiling to himself as he drew open the door.

* * * 

After a leisurely meal in a cafe they both liked, they began the drive back to the cottage. Crowley drove the Bentley up a long, sloping hill, the lane here curving back down to meet the High Street. As they passed a primary school during play time, a small, energetic shriek came in through the window. The sound of it jarred a vague memory loose, of something that had happened when Crowley and Aziraphale had been in the walled garden the previous afternoon.

Aziraphale's hand was rubbing Crowley's knee, its usual resting place when they were in the Bentley, but now went still as he thought about that sound. They had been thoroughly enjoying each other when a soft rustle and sharp, short squeak had come from above them in the oak tree which shaded the ground where they had lain. The distraction had been brief: he had been nearing that moment when rational thought was no longer wanted or needed. Pox had wandered by some time later, and Aziraphale had naturally assumed that the cat had been the source of the rustling—and that the abrupt sound had been that of a twig catching against a notch in the wall, a bird voicing its objection, or a mouse emitting an alarm, both of the latter in response, undoubtedly, to the cat. 

"Suits," Crowley muttered.

"What?" Aziraphale glanced up at him. The Bentley was back on the High Street, nearing the edge of town.

"For the wedding. Can't wear our usual togs, can we."

"Oh, yes." He gave it a moment's consideration. "Well, when we go up to London, I can arrange something for myself. You—" he looked sidelong at Crowley and resumed rubbing his knee. He liked the feel of the black denim trousers that Crowley had taken to wearing, not to mention the black silk shirt with subtle red undertones. "I assume you will—"

"Yeah. I'll come up with something wedding-ish." His fingers came down on Aziraphale's hand and held it for a few seconds. "Won't embarrass you."

"One thing more," Aziraphale said.

"Hm?"

"Witnesses."

"Right," Crowley nodded. "Can't use anyone at the register's office. D'you have anyone in mind?"

"I'm certainly not going to ask …" He pointed a finger upward.

"Yeah. No," Crowley agreed, heartfelt. "Maybe Hannah will do it. Or else she has friends with nothing better to do on September 15."

"Capital idea." Aziraphale's eyes brightened. "I do believe that's everything sorted. I'll make some calls to the jewelers and my tailor this afternoon. Maybe we can to drive to London yet this week."

"My diary," Crowley said in plummy tones, "is clear."

* * * 

They were back on the road early the following day. Aziraphale had arranged late morning appointments with the two jewelers and an early afternoon meeting with his tailor. After disappointing offerings at their first appointment, they came across rings that pleased them both almost the moment they walked in the door of the second jeweler's shop. Sizing would be required in each case, but the jeweler promised their rings would be ready well before their September date.

They took fast-food sandwiches into the park and ate them on one of the benches where they had used to rendezvous. The canopies of the huge, ancient trees blocked the sun overhead and a lovely scented breeze curled round them. The park was as active as ever. Crowley's sentiment that the ducks had not forgotten them seemed to be proven true when they approached the railing. Of course, it might merely have been an exhibition of the gluttonous expectations of ducks, as they paddled close, clacking their beaks, and demanded immediate attention. Aziraphale was amused when Crowley pointed this out. He was not wounded by the apparent fecklessness of the hungry brutes. And it tickled him to see them again.

But he did find himself casting nervous glances at their surroundings. He tried to be surreptitious, but he realized that he was uneasy in town. Even though months had passed since Heaven and Hell had conspired to murder them, and there had been no further attempts to harm them, he felt vulnerable and dreadfully exposed after so long away. Crowley seemed unaffected; he was his usual contradictory relaxed but coiled self. They had not discussed what Crowley would do while Aziraphale met with his tailor; probably he would take advantage of being in London to visit the shops. Aziraphale silently castigated his faintheartedness. Everything would be all right—or it wouldn't. They were as unsafe in their cottage as here. But he could not shake a certain niggling apprehension.

As they walked out of the park, Crowley took his hand. He said, "Mind if I come with you?" Aziraphale gave him a quick searching look, but Crowley's expression was neutral. If he was soothing Aziraphale's nerves—which he feared might be the case—he did not mention it. "Not at all," Aziraphale said, and, despite himself, felt better knowing that Crowley would not be far away.

In fact, the demon sat in the waiting area, flipping through innumerable magazines and playing with his phone while Aziraphale explained to the tailor what he wanted. The man compared his measurements to his records, and noted idly that Aziraphale had lost a few inches since he'd last been in—a result, Aziraphale suggested, of country living. The colors and proposed fabrics were readily available, and there would be no trouble fulfilling his order. The tailor spooled his measuring tape and set it on a table top. Then, congratulating Aziraphale on his upcoming nuptials, he shook his hand. Aziraphale felt himself blush.

On the walk back to the car, Aziraphale popped into a patisserie while Crowley waited just outside the door. His indulgent expression did not change, even after Aziraphale explained that several of the small, jewel-like cakes were for Hannah. And then they were on the road again, and while Aziraphale was pleased with how the day had gone, he was glad—and more than a little relieved—to be departing London.

* * * 

They arrived back late afternoon, and Aziraphale rang Hannah immediately, asking if they might drop in with a favor to ask. She replied that she was reaching for the kettle, and they were welcome any time.

Several of the cats greeted them at the hedge gate, Pox and Quinsy among them. With their feline escort, they walked alongside the small herb and vegetable garden that bordered this side of her house. She was waiting at the door. Aziraphale handed her the small white box containing the cakes, and she waved them in to the kitchen nook, where a pot and mugs were already prepared, along with a plate of freshly baked banana bread.

"These look sinfully delicious," she said. "We'll share one."

Once everyone was settled, tea poured, and plates filled, she looked from Crowley to Aziraphale, and said, "So, what's up?"

"We're getting married," Aziraphale replied.

She gave him a curious look, and Aziraphale remembered he had declared Crowley his husband quite some while ago.

Crowley said easily, "Just making it formal." He bent his head toward Aziraphale. "And we need a witness. Well, witnesses. We'd be honored if you'd consider being one."

"Oh." She turned back toward Aziraphale. "I would be honored to accept. But, aren't there some of your kind, who might—?"

"No," he said. "No. we are—"

"Estranged," Crowley inserted. He added for clarity, "From 'our kind'."

"Oh," she said again. She reached for the small cake she had removed from the box and sliced it into thirds. "That being the case, I am doubly honored." She served them each a slice, then scrutinized first Crowley, then Aziraphale. "If you don't have another witness of your own," she said tactfully, "I'm sure Jacob would be happy to serve as your second."

Crowley raised his brows and looked at Aziraphale, who had no objection, either. "We would be very pleased, if he agrees. It's the fifteenth of September, two in the afternoon. At the registry office."

Hannah sipped her tea. "I'm sure that day is free. Most of my days are."

"Thank you, Hannah," Crowley said. His voice was warm and friendly. Aziraphale thought to himself that he could not remember Crowley speaking that way toward any other human.

She raised her hand. "Not yet. You said you wanted a favor. Well, I want one in kind." At Aziraphale's faintly alarmed look, she patted his hand. "Not that bad. According to Tony you have some experience with what I need." She grinned as Aziraphale appeared no less concerned. "My hives. The honey must be harvested soon." She raised a brow, looking at Crowley. "The bees have been unusually productive for this time of year. And the varroa infestation seems quite to have vanished."

Crowley shifted in his seat. "That's good, then?"

"It will be a record harvest for me. But more importantly, I'm so relieved to see the mites gone. Oddly enough—even though they were everywhere—I haven't found any trace at all. Not even in the brood cells."

Beside him, Aziraphale sang, _sotto voce_ , "Oh, Lord, heal this hive."

Crowley ignored him.

"Normally," Hannah continued, "Rob brings the brawn, but he has been rather poorly. He will help, of course, along with Jacob, if he can get away, and Julie and the kids. Usually I can manage the honey supers on my own, but as they are so heavy this time…. And of course I'll need someone to uncap and to work the extractor—"

"You have an extractor?" Aziraphale asked abruptly. "I've read about such things. Electrical or hand operated?"

She wrinkled her nose. "It's only manual, but—"

"A crank-operated extractor." His eyes glinted at the prospect. "I shall want to be in charge of the extractor." He caught himself. "And the uncapping, of course."

"It's a little different from when you did it last," Crowley warned.

"But I have read about the process, Crowley," Aziraphale countered. He looked at Hannah again. "You don't by any chance have a heated knife, as well?"

Hannah bit her bottom lip. "I do, as it happens."

Aziraphale cut the small piece of cake with the edge of his fork and put it into his mouth. "Hm." He waved his fork over his plate. "This is very good. Hannah, you must try it." When she had picked up her own fork, he said, "I will be most happy to help with your honey harvest." He glanced pointedly at Crowley.

"Me, too," he sighed. "But that was a given. Whenever you need our help, Hannah, you just have to let us know."

* * * 

The harvesting of the honey began early a few days later. Hannah had held out hope that Jacob would be able to assist, but his estate agency was working full days, and sometimes nights, to meet their current demand. Julie drove up the gravel drive mid-morning, accompanied by her children, Jenny and Timothy, and their grandfather, Hannah's brother, Rob. The children had been granted a day off from school, and would be allowed to help—but they were required to remain far from the hives. Timothy, the younger of the two, had proven to be dangerously allergic to bee stings. So, he and his sister Jenny were handed over to Aziraphale—rather to his dismay—in the bee-free, frame processing room, to perform whatever small tasks he deemed necessary.

After introductions, Julie went off to the hives to help Crowley and Hannah. Rob was put in charge of the kitchen, so that anyone wanting a tea or a snack would find something waiting. The morning was unexpectedly chill but fine, which would aid in accessing the hives—the cool air would keep them quiet, but the sunshine would encourage the foragers out into the fields. There they could raid the late summer blooms, leaving the hives less populated.

Aziraphale, sleeves rolled up and clad in a long, worn apron courtesy of Hannah, had already received the first batch of eight frames in a large, lidded plastic tub before the children arrived. The processing room, located at the far end of the former stables, was fully equipped and very tidy. Hannah had spent a couple of minutes explaining the use of each piece of equipment, from the various large food-grade plastic buckets and tanks, to the heated knife and uncapping fork, to the eight-slot, crank-operated extractor.

At first, the children, protectively dwarfed in their father's shirts, stood in the corner by the door, as if they wanted to to be able to escape at the first hint of danger. Aziraphale, by this time, had acquainted himself with the uncapping bucket, with its nailhead rising out of the crossbar to stabilize the frame, and the heated blade, a marvel of beveled edges. It was a joy to position the frame, bulging with capped honey, onto the nail, then to apply the warm blade of the knife, slicing off the caps with a smooth, effortless movement. If the capped areas did not rise above the edges of the frame, he employed a cranked fork, another ingeniously designed tool. Years ago—centuries, really—he had kept bees. Harvesting honey then had been a far less civilized affair, usually to the detriment of the bees.

Engrossed in the work, he dismissed the children from his thoughts soon after they arrived. So it came as a bit of a surprise when Timothy said, "Are you and Tony getting married?"

Aziraphale corrected him evenly, "Mr Crowley."

The boy said, a little sing-songy, "Nana Hannah calls him Tony."

Aziraphale gave him a level look. "You are not your great-aunt."

Timothy frowned at him. "Are you and Mr Crowley getting married, then?" This was a child who was used to being treated as an equal.

Aziraphale held up the dripping frame. "Are you here to help or to bother me while I work?"

"Help," Timothy replied truculently.

"You are too short for this particular task," Aziraphale informed him. "Jenny, is it? What about you?"

She stepped awkwardly nearer. "You want me to hold that? But it's all over honey."

"It goes into the extractor with this bar facing the inside wall of the chamber." He handed it to her and she miscalculated its weight, trying to keep it at a safe distance from her body. He caught it before it could fall to the floor. "It is heavy," he acknowledged. "So hold it with both hands." She reluctantly obeyed, and he guided her at once to the extractor, which was bolted to the floor a couple of feet away. "There. Just like that. Notice that the cells angle outward; that will help the honey slip out once the wheel starts turning." 

Timothy had come over to join them. "Hands behind your back, please," Aziraphale said. The boy gave him a fierce look, but did as he was told. He peered over the edge, just tall enough to do so, at the four frames already in place. "When the frames are in the hive, they hang down from that bar. The bees make their combs with the cells pointing upward, so that the honey doesn't ooze out. Do you see?"

Timothy nodded. Jenny flapped her sticky hands. Aziraphale pointed her toward the sink. As he set to work on the next frame, Timothy hovered nearby. "What do I get to do?"

"You are going to help me man the crank, once the extractor is full of frames." The boy looked up, impressed but questioning. "It's hard work," Aziraphale warned him, as he lifted the next frame out of the box. He included Jenny, as he said, "We may need to take turns."

Jenny said, "Mum wouldn't let us help Granddad before."

"Was this his job, then?" Aziraphale asked, his mind more on the knife and the comb than on their conversation.

"Yeah," Timothy replied. "We always had to stay in the kitchen with mum."

"That's because you were too little," Jenny said resentfully, "and bees make you sick. So I had to stay with you, too."

Timothy didn't dispute this, but he did wrinkle his brow. "So, are you and Mr Crowley getting married?" he persisted. "If you don't, you're living in sin."

Aziraphale used the fork to finish the frame and handed it to Jenny, who took it with both hands and carefully placed it inside the extractor. "Well done," Aziraphale said, overseeing the positioning. "They fit side by side, just like that. They have to be well balanced."

The boy, hands stretched behind his back, like a swimmer on a diving board, studied his sister's work.

"We are not living in sin," Aziraphale said composedly.

Timothy appeared suddenly crestfallen. "But you are." He looked across at Jenny, who had returned to the sink and was rinsing off her sticky hands. He appeared to want back-up. "Nan says it's a sin to have sex if you're not married."

In the act of wiping her hands, Jenny darted a look at Aziraphale and froze.

"Your great-aunt said that?" Aziraphale had heard the distinction between Nana and Nan, but he wanted confirmation.

"Nan is mum's mum," Jenny answered nervously. "She didn't say that to us." She glared at Timothy, who glared back. "She was talking to Granddad about Mum's sister."

"And why," Aziraphale said in his quietest voice, "would you say that about us, Timothy?"

Timothy seemed suddenly to realize his mistake. "I—we—you—"

"Yes?" Aziraphale flipped the frame over and ran the edge of the blade through the comb caps. They peeled off in a single soft fold of wax, which fell into the tank with a most satisfying _plop_.

"We—we saw you," Jenny confessed, her face screwed up with distress.

"Ah." Unconcerned, Aziraphale handed her the frame. She took it with some hesitation, but carried it to the extractor and lined it up with the third frame.

"One more frame, and it'll be time to do some spinning," Aziraphale announced. Then: "Was that when you were on the wall, hidden under the branches of the oak tree?"

"How do you know that?" Timothy whispered, his eyes enormous.

"I heard you." Aziraphale remembered the muted shriek as they had passed the primary school in town. "I would much prefer that you had not seen us. But I do not apologize. Once you saw what was going on, you should have gone about your business."

Timothy's bottom lip was trembling. Aziraphale had not spoken in anger, but neither did he intend to make this easy for them. "We used to climb it all the time, when Granddad lived here," he said weakly.

"Sorry," Jenny said, her eyes downcast.

Aziraphale was finishing the eighth frame. He gestured to Jenny, who took it and tucked it into the final slot in the extractor, an old hand at it now. "And you, Timothy?" he asked gently.

"I'm sorry, too," he replied in a tiny voice.

"You need to say that to Mr Crowley, as well," Aziraphale told them, still in that pleasant, but unequivocal tone.

"Say what to Mr Crowley?" Crowley came into the open door, delivering another plastic box loaded with frames. He set the wheelbarrow near the first box, lifted the new one out, and put the previous, now empty one into the wheelbarrow. He was disheveled and flushed. Having no fear of bees, he had rolled up his sleeves and opened the collar of his shirt: it was hard work, pulling the frames from the hives. Aziraphale wanted to make love to him on the spot.

But brows raised, Aziraphale looked from one child to the other, instead. Neither of them would meet his eyes. To Crowley he said, "They saw us in the walled garden the other day. When we were—"

"Ah." Crowley screwed up his face rather as Jenny had. For a few seconds, he said nothing—though his slightly queasy expression spoke volumes. "Well, it's not the end of the world, though, is it?"

"Mr Fell says you're not married," Jenny explained in a rush. "But you were doing—that. Our Nan says it's a sin. He says it's not."

With some exasperation, Crowley said, "Little young for debating morality, aren't they?"

"I didn't start it," Aziraphale said simply.

"But if you get married," Timothy piped up, "it'll be okay."

"And it'll be better if we don't have anyone spying on us," Aziraphale pointed out. He gave the children a meaningful look and tipped his head in Crowley's direction.

Before they could voice their apologies, Crowley said, too quickly, "Great. You're both forgiven. Don't do it again." He walked up to Aziraphale and kissed him. "You're sticky," he murmured.

"And you have brought in a hitchhiker." He reached up and plucked a bee out of Crowley's hair. He nudged the window open and tossed the insect out, quickly closing the window behind it.

"Ouch!"

"Tim!" Jenny squeaked in horror.

The boy was holding his right wrist against his chest, staring down at the bee penetrating his flesh. "Timothy," Aziraphale spoke in a voice that assumed obedience, "please do not crush that bee."

"It stung me!"

Jenny cried out, "Mum!"

"Hush, child." To Timothy, he said, "Hold your arm steady." With preternatural gentleness, he extricated the bee from the boy's already reddening skin, its stinger intact. Crowley, who belatedly realized the enormity of the situation, was right beside him and took the struggling insect away in his cupped palms. Aziraphale placed his thumb over the tiny wound. "It is all right, Timothy." 

"But I—" The child's eyes were black with fear, and his skin had gone cold and clammy. Aziraphale took both of his hands in his. "Tell me how you feel."

Timothy swallowed, his breathing a little erratic. Aziraphale said, "Deep breaths, please." As none of the symptoms the boy was expecting occurred, he gradually began to calm down. Aziraphale said, "That's better." He glanced across at Crowley, who, after putting the bee out of the window, had gone to Jenny and was speaking to her in low tones. Crowley gave him a quick nod. "Now, tell me how you feel."

"Okay?" the boy said, uncertainly. But he was looking into Aziraphale's eyes with sudden and complete trust. "Okay," he said again, and this time there was conviction in his voice.

"Good. Now—" He let go of Timothy's hands and took a step back. "Before we do anything else, you both have something to say to Mr Crowley, do you not?"

Crowley groaned.

Jenny, who was still standing next to Crowley, took a moment to steady her own breathing. Aziraphale could see that she had been very near tears before Crowley had stepped in. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have watched you—"

"That's good," Crowley cut her off, and awkwardly patted her shoulder. He shot a quelling look at Aziraphale. Undeterred, Aziraphale insisted, "Timothy?"

"Me, too. Sorry, I mean."

"Right." Crowley exhaled, relieved to have done with it. "You lot sort it out. I'll tell Hannah—"

"Please don't tell Nana!" Jenny cried; Timothy made an incoherent squawk of apparent agreement.

"Steady on. I'm just going to tell your Nana that it's time we all had a break. Right?"

"Excellent idea," Aziraphale said. "We'll be refreshed and ready for more hard work. But for the next few minutes, let's get this extractor going."

* * * 

There was a great deal of honey. By mid-afternoon, both of the children were exhausted. Their grandfather Rob came into the honey processing room to congratulate them for all they had accomplished. The honey, he explained, was darker because of the late summer flowers and would have a different flavor from the honey gathered in the spring, which was usually a lighter shade of amber. Aziraphale, standing with his hands coupled at his waist, silently approved this cogent summation. A couple of dozen jars of varying sizes—from very small to very large—filled and sealed, lined the counter, awaiting Hannah's labels. There was yet more honey to be gleaned from the cap wax, plus the stuff still filtering into the hold bucket.

"My word," Rob said, "Hannah will be pleased."

Aziraphale was watching him. He was, according to Hannah, younger than she, but he moved like a man many years older, possibly arthritic and plainly uncertain of his balance. The latter was the result of a small, inoperable malignant tumor in his brain. The accident, Aziraphale thought, must have made things worse, though the tumor must only have been uncovered when he was in hospital. "Jenny and Timothy have earned their day off," Aziraphale said. As he spoke, he wordlessly conferred a small blessing of healing. As it took effect, he saw Rob's gaze turn inward. The man straightened up and his shoulders subtly loosened. He looked flummoxed, but said nothing.

Just then Julie walked in. She appeared as knackered as her children. "You two ready to go home?" she asked, stifling a yawn. Finding actual words to be too much effort, the children only bobbed their heads, like puppets whose strings had gone slack. Timothy leaned against her side, and she idly ruffled his hair. Jenny put her arms around her grandfather.

"All done in the field?" Aziraphale asked.

"They're just cleaning up around the hives. Jacob arrived an hour ago and is taking over for your Mr Crowley." She smiled warmly at him. "By the way, I understand congratulations are in order."

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"For what?" Jenny asked.

"Mr Fell and Tony are getting married."

The children's betrayal was mirrored in their expressions. Aziraphale met their outraged scowls tranquilly. "Why didn't you just say—?" Jenny began, at the same moment that Timothy objected, "You could've told—"

"Hey!" Julie quieted them. "What's all this—?"

"Do you need a flower girl?" Jenny asked hopefully.

"No," Aziraphale replied, but not unkindly.

"Ring bearer?" Timothy chimed in. Julie was staring at her children in frank astonishment. "I'm old enough," he added. Jenny was looking robbed. She opened her mouth then closed it, as if she wanted to argue but knew that her case was hopeless.

"Now, listen—" Julie began, embarrassed.

"Actually," Aziraphale said, "there will be two rings." He let that hang on the air for a moment. The children perked up at once. "I would be delighted. But your mother and father will be the final arbiters."

"What about To—Mr Crowley?" Jenny asked.

"Is that my name I hear again?" Crowley asked. He was propped against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, his longish hair tousled, a couple of locks overhanging his forehead. At sight of him, Aziraphale felt that familiar surge of emotions that seeing him always provoked—love, desire, happiness, and still, a certain amount of disbelief that this creature belonged to him.

"I've just invited Jenny and Timothy to be our ring bearers."

Crowley blinked, his eyes just visible to Aziraphale through his dark lenses. Then he pushed away from the door and, strolling across the room to Aziraphale's side, said, "Ring bearers, eh? And what does this pair of great pests say?"

"Yes, please," Jenny said, excited. She let go of her grandfather and raced across to her mother and grabbed her hand. "Yes, please," Timothy echoed, wrapping his arms tighter around Julie's waist and adding a pleading look for maximum effect.

Still puzzled, Julie remarked, "Your father and I will discuss it." She looked at Crowley and Aziraphale. "You have a date?"

Aziraphale let Crowley answer, enjoying the weight of his arm slung over his shoulders, and the soft, easy kiss he pressed to his temple. "Fifteenth of September, two in the afternoon, at the registry." A thought seemed to occur to him. "It's a weekday."

"Fifteenth of September," Julie muttered to herself. "I'll ring you. It's very kind of you to offer." She inhaled long and deep. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm ready to go home. Dad?"

Rob had spent the last few moments stealthily moving his limbs, tilting his head from side to side, gripping and releasing his fingers, and all the while his eyes grew rounder with wonder. "Can I come, too?" he asked Aziraphale, as artless as a child.

"Of course. It would be our pleasure," Aziraphale said. Crowley signaled his agreement, and added, "You're all welcome." He made a wry face. "You won't make me send out a formal invitation, though, will you?"

Julie laughed, gazing at her father-in-law with some bemusement. "Of course not. Thank you," she said to both of them. "I hope the room is large enough?"

"More than," Crowley replied. He gave Aziraphale a small nudge to start him walking toward the door. "And now, we're going home, too."

"I'd like to stop in the walled garden, first," Aziraphale said, his eyes on Crowley's mouth. He heard a small noise, and glanced over at the children, who were standing very still, staring at him. "To pick some tomatoes," he said smoothly. 

Crowley gripped his hand and whispered in his ear, "You are wicked."

Aziraphale merely smiled.

* * * 

Late that night Aziraphale sat at the end of the sofa in the library, a book in hand, a nearly full glass of wine on the table near his side. They had eaten a light meal, which had indeed featured Crowley's tomatoes, had watched a movie on Crowley's big screen, then Aziraphale had said he wanted to catch up on his reading. He had kissed his soon-to-be husband good night and retired to the library. It was cool there, and deathly quiet. He loved it. He had never considered how much noise came off the streets in London, a background hum not unlike the incessant buzz of a beehive, but far less restful.

He had just reached for the glass when the soft sound of bare footsteps came from the doorway. Crowley, yawning, walked in.

"Thought you'd gone to bed," Aziraphale remarked. He handed over his glass as Crowley slumped down next to him.

"Got lonely." Crowley drank the glass half empty and handed it back.

"Do you want me to come up?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nope." He was dressed for bed, meaning that he was shirtless, a pair of loose pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. Leaning closer, he kissed Aziraphale, a slow and affectionate kiss. Then he rolled onto his side, curled up his legs, and dropped his head onto Aziraphale's lap. 

Aziraphale tugged one of the throws off the back of the sofa and draped it over his bare shoulders. Rubbing his cheek against Aziraphale's thigh, Crowley murmured his appreciation. "Are you reporting for duty again tomorrow?" Aziraphale asked.

"Hannah said she's got it covered. Rob's going to render the wax, and Jacob should be able to help in the morning. Speaking of Rob—"

"Hm?" Aziraphale raised his glass for a sip.

"He seemed much fitter than he had."

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed absently.

"Nice bloke."

"Yes," Aziraphale said again, and sighed. "I suppose," he ventured, "that we shouldn't be doing much of that sort of thing. But both of them, he and Timothy, needed only very small—tiny, almost—blessings to make things right."

"From what Hannah said, it could have gone very badly for Tim. The medication was in Julie's purse, which was … somewhere." Crowley hooked a forearm over Aziraphale's leg. "I'm not wrong in thinking that he won't be bothered by that anymore?"

"Indeed, you are not," Aziraphale said.

"Good. He's okay. But I suppose you're right. They've left us alone, who knows why—but it can't hurt that we've kept a low profile." Aziraphale smiled to himself: that phrase had been in the evening's movie. And he didn't have to ask who _they_ were.

"Well, we'll try to avoid it in future."

"Hm," Crowley murmured. Aziraphale could feel him going still and soft as he drifted into slumber. To the neglect of his book, he spent a while simply watching him, admiring the sweep of his lashes, the dusting of freckles on his cheeks, the curve of his nose, the shape of his mouth, all while lightly stroking his hair. It soothed him as much, apparently, as it did Crowley, this simple touching. When he took up his glass again, he was pensive.

Eventually there would be a reckoning; he knew that. Neither Heaven nor Hell would forgive them for what they had done, nor could they ever forget, and he suspected that further retribution had not already followed only because both sides had had to contend with the repercussions of their failed war. But for the moment, with Crowley beside him, and a book and a glass of wine at hand, Aziraphale was able to force the never completely forgotten dread to the back of his mind. For now, all was well.

* * * 

Aziraphale was in the kitchen when a light knock came at the front door the following morning. Without his acute hearing, he would not have heard it at all. By the time he opened the exterior door of the porch, there was no one around. On the top step, however, was a large basket filled with recently baked goods and a couple of jars of Hannah's honey. A small note was attached to one of the jars. The first line read, _Thank you_.

He tutted to himself as he took the basket into the kitchen. But he didn't hesitate to tear open a still steaming sweet roll and dip it into his tea. Turning his head to avoid drips, he bit into the roll with something like bliss. He put together a tray with a fresh mug of tea and a plate of rolls and small dishes of honey and preserves, and took it out to Crowley, who was wrist-deep in potting soil.

The conservatory had thickened with growing things, and lemons and oranges and a variety of flowers scented the air. Crowley was by the open outside door, preparing a large earthen urn for cuttings from another plant. In a pool of sun a few feet away lay Pox, stretched out with his head on his paws, asleep.

"Hannah brought us a basket," Aziraphale said, and set the tray on the nearby work table. Crowley glanced up and accepted a kiss. "Smells good."

"She thinks," Aziraphale said, with some asperity, as he applied a smear of butter to one of the rolls, "that I saved Timothy's life." He added a dollop of preserves and a trickle of honey.

"You know that you did." He opened his mouth for a bite of sweet roll. "Hm. Did you tell her that she was wrong?"

Aziraphale looked a little affronted. "No, of course not. It is true, after all." He took a bite for himself. "For that matter, I didn't get a chance to thank her, at all. The basket was on the step in front of the porch." 

Crowley wiped his hands on a liberally dirt-encrusted towel and reached for the mug of tea. "Is that why your feathers are ruffled?"

Aziraphale glanced sharply over his shoulder. "They aren't—! Oh, you mean metaphorically. No. She wants to hold a reception for us, following the wedding. A small get-together."

"Does she."

Aziraphale set the note beside the tray. "I don't really mind, but I thought you might—"

"Nope. So long as it's quick and we don't have to make speeches."

"Just tea and cake. At Jacob's home."

"Better and better." Crowley's expression was devilish. "Since we're supposed to be honeymooning in the big garden, at least we won't have to worry about anyone overseeing our doings."

Ridiculously, Aziraphale felt the color rise in his face. "That's a yes?" He fed Crowley another piece of sweet roll.

"Hm hm." Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale sighed. He bent low and claimed another kiss. "Right. I'll ring her now."

* * * 

Over the next week life returned to normal. Aziraphale enjoyed the quiet and solitude of his library after a number of days of inattention, while Crowley devoted himself to another plant project; something, he said, that had to do with rare flowers.

In the evenings, they often took a postprandial stroll up the hill to walk among the beech trees, cool and moist in the late heat of the day. Aziraphale was looking forward to the changing of the leaves; they had been spectacular the previous year. Back at the cottage they sometimes went up to the dormer balcony to enjoy a glass of wine in the dusk; other times, they spent an hour or two as the shadows lengthened in the cool privacy of the walled garden, trusting now that they would not be watched.

In the last days of August, Aziraphale received a call informing him that his suit was ready for a final fitting. Coincidentally, the jeweler preparing their rings rang to request a day they might pick them up. They succeeded in arranging both errands for the same day.

While Aziraphale tried on his new suit, the tailor fussing over the fit and the hems, Crowley flipped through most of the same magazines he'd seen a few weeks before. Aziraphale was happy with the cut and very pleased with the overall look, but the tailor suggested a couple of adjustments. It would take him only a day or two, he promised, and he would have one of his staff drive it down. That assistant would stay long enough to ensure that any last-minute tweaks were done at the cottage. Aziraphale agreed.

He rounded up Crowley and they walked to the jeweler's shop. There they inspected their finished rings. The jeweler was as meticulous in ensuring proper fit as Aziraphale's tailor had been with his suit.

The sight of the bands on their fingers gave Aziraphale a strange, lightheaded sensation. As much as he wanted this, it was also, he admitted to himself, deeply surreal. He had, by this point in his existence, experienced almost everything that a human might undergo—including discorporation. Though not real death, it had felt like that to him. This—marrying a demon, of all unlikely creatures; marrying at all, for that matter—was equally as eventful, and there were times, like now, when his mind seemed incapable of competently comprehending the magnitude of what they were doing.

As the jeweler boxed their rings and placed them in individual velvet bags with their names painted in gold on the outside, he carried on a mostly one-sided conversation about their upcoming wedding, their choice of rings, his prognostication for the weather on Their Day (Aziraphale could hear the capital letters in the jeweler's voice), and ended with seemingly genuine well wishes. Throughout, Crowley held Aziraphale's hand beneath the counter, his grip unusually tight. Aziraphale glanced sidelong at him, but Crowley did not meet his gaze. It occurred to him for the first time that Crowley might be suffering the same gamut of emotions, and, despite his seeming equanimity, might be finding all of this every bit as daunting as Aziraphale was himself. Soothed by that thought, Aziraphale wished his own tension away. When he reached out to take the carry bag from the jeweler's waiting hand, he allowed himself a rush of unalloyed happiness. Everything would be all right. 

"Thank you," Aziraphale beamed, and walked out onto the pavement with Crowley, who seemed to have relaxed as well. 

Standing together in the shade of the doorway, his eyes piercingly yellow behind the dark lenses, Crowley asked, "Lunch?"

"On the way?" Aziraphale suggested. "I—I'd rather go home."

"Yeah, me too."

* * * 

The heat of August gave way to the cool nights and mild days of early September. After a run of three damp days, the sun came out, bringing with it welcome warmth. A few hours after dawn that day, Crowley marched Aziraphale, protesting only because it was expected of him, out to the walled garden to help him harvest his remaining vegetable and herb crop. There would be a second harvest in a few weeks, but that would take place in the conservatory.

After a couple of hours work, they piled overflowing boxes into the wheelbarrow and deposited them by the door to the conservatory. Crowley took the final box to Hannah's door in his arms. As he stood by, Aziraphale knocked, mindful of a large closed box on the step by his foot. The door swung open at once, and Hannah greeted them, directing Crowley to the kitchen. 

"These look marvelous," Hannah said, picking among the various offerings. "The box for you is on the front step."

Aziraphale raised his brows. "More?"

"We decided early on that we would share, Tony and I. And we were careful not to grow all the same veg."

"Ah."

"And I'll be taking a couple of boxes to the co-op for distribution."

"Want help loading the car?" Crowley asked.

Hannah took a deep breath. "Yes, thank you." She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, saying, "But first let's have a little sit-down. A couple of things I'd like to discuss with you."

"We're unfit company, Hannah," Aziraphale objected, spreading his hands to display his unkempt state: dusty trousers, green-slimed hands; a stray leaf and vegetable stain on his sleeves. "You shouldn't even have allowed us in the door."

"Nonsense." She took a plate full of biscuits and tiny pastries to the table. "Horses used to live here, Aziraphale," she said of the former mews. "I assure you, you and Tony are an improvement."

Aziraphale gave in gracefully and sat down, hiding his hands in his lap just long enough to render them clean. He helped himself to a pastry. A couple of minutes later, Crowley ferried the tray with the tea things to the table, while Aziraphale rose to hold Hannah's chair for her. As she was settling, Crowley asked, "So what's up?"

"Your wedding," Hannah said plainly. 

Aziraphale slowed as he lowered himself into his own chair. 

"Don't look worried," Hannah went on. "I just—well, you invited all of us under rather strained circumstances. But I don't want you to feel that you need do more than have me and Rob—Jacob may not be able to make it—as your witnesses. I would still like to hold a little reception for you afterward. But even that is your choice." She looked a little chagrined.

As he reached out and lightly patted Hannah's hand, Aziraphale shifted his gaze and wordlessly consulted with Crowley. "Are the children still willing to serve as our ring bearers?" he asked.

"Oh, of course! They're over the moon about it. Especially Tim. He means to hold your ring, Aziraphale." She poured their tea.

Crowley said, "So, that just leaves … Julie? … and your nephew," he wrinkled his face as the name seemed to elude him.

"Jacob," Aziraphale reminded him. "If he can make it."

"Him. Right." Crowley shrugged. "Really, Hannah. No objections."

"Nor me," Aziraphale said, and discovered that he meant it. The service would be short, and they would not stay overlong at the reception. "It's kind of you to help us, Hannah. We're grateful. Your family is very welcome."

"All right," she said, appearing relieved. "If there is anything else, at all, I can do, I am more than willing to do it. And Rob—" for some reason she cast a meaningful glance Aziraphale's way, "can help now, too."

Aziraphale raised his brows and smiled blankly. He was suddenly quite certain that Hannah knew exactly what he had done, both for Tim and Rob. He sipped his tea.

"We'll keep that in mind," Crowley said. He took one of the biscuits and ate it. "Did you make these? Hmm."

* * * 

For Aziraphale, the rest of that week went by in a haze. He spent long hours in the library, though he managed to unpack only a single box. In the evenings Crowley often joined him. Sometimes they made it up to bed; sometimes they didn't. Everywhere he went, Aziraphale took with him a small sheaf of papers, folded in half. When Crowley was with him, he pushed them under the silver coaster on the side table or under the placemat on the table in the kitchen. Crowley ignored them, for which Aziraphale was grateful.

One morning at the end of that week, he sat at the kitchen nook, fountain pen in hand, a mildly disgruntled expression on his face. He brightened when he heard Crowley's footsteps coming down the hall. "'Morning," he greeted, as the sleep-warm demon appeared.

Crowley grunted. His hair was disarrayed and his eyes were hooded with lingering sleep. He sat in the chair opposite Aziraphale and poured himself a mug of tea. With his elbows propped on the table in front of him, the mug held close to his mouth, he mumbled, "So what is that? You've been carrying it around for days."

"Vows," Aziraphale admitted, and grimaced slightly. "Still need to be written."

Crowley slurped his tea, then stole a corner off Aziraphale's toast, and ate it, saying nothing.

"Are we being ridiculous, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.

That seemed to wake him up a little. "About?"

Aziraphale picked up the papers and held them in the air. "All this."

Crowley eyes went to half mast again. "You've changed your mind?" He didn't seem concerned, just curious. He helped himself to another corner of toast.

"No," Aziraphale replied with some force. "Not at all. Not really. I just—" He raised one shoulder in a shrug. "Human rules don't apply to us."

"True." Before he could pilfer yet another bite, Aziraphale pushed his plate across the table to him. He stood up and, after pausing to kiss the top of Crowley's head, went to the sideboard where he prepared a fresh slice of toast for himself.

"So—" Seated again, Aziraphale chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "I guess I can't help but wonder why we should adhere to their customs. We are not humans." He picked up the slice of toast and was just about to put it between his teeth when Crowley asked, "Are you going to eat that?"

Aziraphale frowned. "I was." Crowley bent his head to the side, his expression mildly ironic. The real meaning of his question registered. "Oh." Aziraphale let out a soft, slightly abashed snort. "Quite."

"We've lived as humans for over six thousand years," Crowley said, blandly. "Worn their clothes, drunk their wine, lived in their buildings—eaten their toast. We haven't needed to do any of that. Angel, we're more human than some of them."

Aziraphale murmured, "I daresay." 

Crowley's voice was lower, deep and rich, when he said, "It's just for us, getting married. Crazy, yeah. But no crazier than owning a bookshop or driving a car. Just kinda human." He washed the last mouthful of toast down with his tea, and stood up. Bending over Aziraphale, he pressed his cheek against Aziraphale's temple. "Already did it."

Aziraphale raised his head, and Crowley took his mouth in a long, lush kiss. Released at last, and blinking owlishly, Aziraphale asked, "Did what?"

Crowley rinsed out his mug and set it in the sink. "My vows." He leaned back, heels of his palms braced on the counter, his narrow hips canted forward—his usual unconsciously provocative pose. Aziraphale felt a familiar lick of heat at sight of the long shadow in Crowley's denims, and his mouth went dry as Crowley absently ran a thumb along the side of it to ease the strain. "You better get a wiggle on," Crowley was saying. "We're getting married next week. You need to pop that in the post, so—" But Aziraphale had risen from the chair and was reaching for him. Whatever else Crowley had intended to say was stopped by Aziraphale's mouth. Later, as Crowley clung to him, trousers hanging precariously off the tops of his thighs, Aziraphale had found the words that he would write.

* * * 

On a warm, sunny morning a couple of days later, Aziraphale's tailor rang to tell him that his suit was ready and he would like to send his assistant to the cottage to ensure that it met with his satisfaction. Aziraphale set a time for that afternoon and retired to the library. In the last couple of days he had made decent progress. Progress for him meant opening a box and then spending the next few days or week poring over the contents. It made for slow work, but it gave him inexpressible pleasure to handle each and every one of those newly revealed treasures, to admire and reminisce, to reacquaint himself with the mind of each tome.

The doorbell roused him out of close scrutiny of one of his more recently acquired volumes. A glance at the clock told him the visitor must be the tailor's assistant. Aziraphale started to set the book on the window seat, but a brindled head came up and jewel bright eyes regarded him expressionlessly. He had forgotten that Quinsy had joined him this morning, apparently entering the house when Crowley had opened the conservatory door.

She had become a frequent, silent companion, rarely voicing an opinion save for those days of unremitting wet when she would stare out the window and make a low grumbling noise, as if complaining to herself. On those days, he would steal a throw off the sofa and set it on the window seat where she could make a nest for herself and resume being a silent companion.

Crowley was at the door before him. As Aziraphale came around the corner from the dining area, he was shouting, "Angel!" Aziraphale had told him there would be a visitor when he had taken a mug of tea out to him mid-morning. It wasn't by accident that Crowley was here now. Whether he was acting as protector, or simply wanted to see the new suit on him, Aziraphale did not know.

The tailor's assistant was a small man, and the large plastic suit bag he held folded over his arm seemed almost as big as him. "I'm here," Aziraphale murmured, brushing his fingers down Crowley's arm. "Good morning," he greeted the small man. "William, isn't it?"

"Yes, good morning, Mr Fell." Crowley stepped back as Aziraphale ushered the man into the entry. "Tea?" Crowley asked. He pointed at himself. "Crowley."

William said, "I shouldn't, Mr Crowley. But would you mind terribly? It was a harrowing drive down the motorway."

"Not at all." Crowley closed the door and disappeared into the kitchen as Aziraphale, waving the man past the staircase, said, "Please come this way, William. Into the lounge." He took the heavy bag from him. "Have a seat. I'll go into the next room and dress there, and then you can inspect me while you take your tea."

"That is very kind of you, Mr Fell." The tailor's assistant sat himself on the edge of one of the armchairs, his hands in his lap. He had aged since Aziraphale had first met him, and the realization came as a small, unpleasant surprise. But his health was good, and he seemed happy in his work. These thoughts crossed Aziraphale's mind as he went into Crowley's study and took off his things, neatly folding them, as was his habit, and setting them on the long, leather sofa.

The shirt was pristinely white, with button cuffs and a starched collar. He slid it over his under-vest, and tested its give after doing up the buttons. The trousers, which had been made in the same off-white fabric as the jacket, fell down to his heels in a perfect flow. He closed his flies with the shirt tucked smooth beneath the waistband, and settled the already attached braces onto his shoulders with a snap, then smoothed them flat.

The waistcoat was a soft silver color, the fabric etched in paisley-like patterns with a metallic silver thread, subtle but eye-catching. He buttoned it up, pleased at the look against the trousers and the shirt. The bow tie was the same color as the waistcoat, without the pattern. He tied it blind, then squared it between his fingers, and determined, by touch alone, that it was exactly right. The jacket, with its silver silk lining, seemed to mold itself to him, even before he rolled his shoulders and shot his cuffs. Last of all, at the very bottom of the bag, in separate wrapping, were the off-white shoes and stockings that precisely matched the color of the jacket and trousers. He slipped them on and gave each leg a shake to encourage the proper fall of fabric. 

Aziraphale went into the lounge, concentrating on the fit and glide of the fabric as he walked in. He was pleasantly surprised to see that Crowley had brought the cheval glass down from the bedroom. He and William were chatting amiably, and William appeared to have recovered his composure. They seemed, for some reason, to be discussing squirrels. Crowley stopped what he was saying mid-sentence as Aziraphale entered the room. 

William exclaimed, "Oh! That is perfect." He rose at once, setting his mug on one of the coasters on the side table at the end of the sofa. "Here, please, Mr Fell, in front of the mirror. Thank you again, Mr Crowley, for fetching it down. Oh my, yes."

The tailor's assistant walked around Aziraphale, muttering to himself about the fit, the drape, the fall, all in superlatives. While appreciative of the man's effusiveness, Aziraphale was aware only of Crowley, who was staring at him, his eyes bright and very intense. He could feel the waves of desire rolling off him—and they were stirring a like response in him. But he dared not allow himself to react now, not with William smoothing a fold, checking the drop from shoulder to hip, hip to ankle, peering microscopically at a seam. Urgently, he forced himself to think about the book he had been studying earlier; the brindled cat in his library; the box rooms overhead, which they still had done nothing about—anything at all that would keep his body from responding to Crowley's inspection.

"...all done here, Mr Fell," William was saying. He had pulled a sealed envelope out of a pocket and was extending it now to him. "The usual thank you from Mr Soudley." 

"Very good," Aziraphale managed to reply. "Have a—have a safe drive back to London, William. Take some of those biscuits with you, why don't you."

"That's very kind, Mr Fell. I will drive with care," William's smile was warm. He shook Aziraphale's hand and gathered his things. "Good bye."

"I'll show you out," Crowley said, in a voice like velvet, and moved for the first time since Aziraphale had entered the room. William heard the change in his tone—Aziraphale saw his brows twitch—but easily covered his expression with the experience of long years of practice. Undoubtedly they were not the first couple to seem perpetually on the simmer.

Aziraphale gave himself a last look in the mirror, a slow revolution that revealed almost every angle. There were footsteps on the hall floor, and Crowley entered the room. He leaned back, shutting the door behind him. "No." Aziraphale said, both hands raised, fingers spread.

Crowley stalked slowly toward him, his eyes large and predatory. He had removed his dark glasses.

"Now, Crowley," Aziraphale said, hoping for reason.

Crowley swayed slightly, side to side, the barest hint of movement. Aziraphale realized at once what he was doing. He was still able to resist—just—but Crowley's powers of seduction were astonishingly effective, even more so since they had become intimate. "You may help me—" he said, in measured tones, "take everything off. But, carefully. Yes?"

"Yes," Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale swallowed hard. Crowley led him back down the hall to his study, and there, while Aziraphale remained standing, proceeded to remove Aziraphale's clothing, one piece at a time, starting with his jacket. He worked with maddening precision, restoring each item to its appropriate container, hook, clips, or hanger. After each item was dealt with, a kiss was given; and as time went on, each kiss lasted longer and longer. Not all of them were applied to Aziraphale's mouth.

In the end, the suit survived with minimal handling. The same could not be said for Aziraphale, who by the time Crowley laid the suit over the back of the armchair, zipped into its protective cover, was more than ready for his complete attention, every inch of him craving his touch, his mouth. When, at last, he lay exhausted in his arms, he spared a second—no more—in offering a silent thank you to William and Mr Soudley for their expert artisanship.

* * * 

The last days before their wedding followed the same pattern of drizzly mornings and sunny afternoons. Crowley split his time between the conservatory and the walled garden. He would come inside when the whim took him for a cup of tea and a kiss, and a few minutes of desultory conversation. Aziraphale sat in his window seat, reading or simply musing, his thoughts on the wedding and Crowley, always Crowley. He took refuge from the sight of the morning rain in the conservatory, bringing with him a tray of tea and biscuits, or savored the afternoon sun in the walled garden while Crowley toiled.

Often he was accompanied by Quinsy, who seemed to appear as soon as Crowley went off to his own projects. She was unassuming company, restful; he found her purring calming. He noticed that as soon as Crowley came in for the day, she would ask to be let out. It was odd, but he had the impression that she was keeping an eye on him. In the evenings, when they walked the grounds, they were followed by both Quinsy and Pox, the two cats entertaining themselves with games of pounce and chase, but always nearby, and always vanishing away when they returned to the cottage for the night.

The day came when there was nothing but rain. The skies started leaden, grew increasingly black, and in late afternoon the clouds split open and wind blasted rain down in impenetrable sheets. Crowley suggested a movie, and Aziraphale, too distractible to want to do anything else, agreed. Crowley was pouring wine into a glass, a freshly popped bowl of popcorn at his elbow, and Aziraphale was flaking chocolate for his cocoa when the phone rang. They looked at each other.

"You don't have to answer it," Aziraphale said.

But Crowley was staring out at the rain thumping down, the runnels of water washing across the windows. He took a deep breath and lifted the receiver of the ancient, wall-mounted telephone. "Crowley." He listened for a while. "I see." He handed the phone to Aziraphale and walked out of the kitchen, toward the foyer.

Frowning, Aziraphale watched him go. A faint voice came out of the earpiece, "Hello? Hello!" Aziraphale lifted the phone to his ear. "Yes, hello."

"Mr Crowley?"

"Sorry, this is Aziraphale. Mr Crowley had to step away. Who is that?"

There was a wet noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. And then: "It's Rob Steele, Hannah's brother. I met you when we were—"

"I remember. You sound distressed, Mr Steele."

"It's our Jacob and Jenny. I told Mr Crowley. There was a smash-up on the motorway. The doctors—they're saying they won't make it."

"Ah." Aziraphale understood why Crowley had left. He didn't like uncomfortable situations. "That is very bad news."

"Listen, Mr Aziraphale, Hannah doesn't know that I've called you. But I overheard her once, talking with that hen group of hers; her cousins, I think she calls them."

Aziraphale was thinking quickly. Where had Crowley gotten off to? "Coven, probably," he said absently. "Go on."

"She said that you and Tony can do, well, special things. Jacob and Jenny, they're going to—" his voice broke again. "They call it harvesting. Harvesting! Like they're— But Hannah said—"

"I—I'm not sure what you're asking, Mr Steele," Aziraphale said apologetically. "I'm a retired antiquarian book seller."

A pause. A snuffle. "Oh. I thought sure she—"

"You must trust the doctors. They will do their best, I'm quite certain." The hootle of the Bentley's horn, barely audible through the triple-glazed windows, came from outside. "Be strong, Mr Steele. Your family needs you."

"But she said—"

"I am sorry. You must have heard incorrectly. Please excuse me, but I must go. Good bye, Mr. Steele." He set the receiver onto the cradle, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Rob's pleading sob. The horn sounded again.

Casting a quick look round—the hob was off; nothing appeared to be in imminent danger of burning down—he hurried down the hall to the entry closet. He snagged his jacket, rarely worn in these days of cardigans and rustic tweeds, and threw it on. He grabbed an umbrella, yanked open the front door, and plunged out into the rain.

The Bentley was idling alongside the stone walk, almost on top of the lawn. The rain was slashing across the headlamps, ricocheting off the roof and bonnet, and making an altogether unholy racket. Aziraphale cursed under his breath at having to run round the back of the vehicle, but just as he came abreast of the passenger door, it swung wide. He slipped inside, expertly closing the umbrella and stashing it between his seat and the door.

"We're going somewhere?" he asked, even as the car lurched onto the drive.

Crowley was glaring out the window, into the sodden black. "We can argue on the way," he replied. "It'll save time when you decide it was your idea."

"You don't want to help."

"Not our job." 

"Indeed it is not. Why are we going?"

"I haven't said where."

"True." Aziraphale was disgusted to find that, despite the umbrella, his hands were actually dripping wet. He wiped them hopelessly on his drenched trousers. "Hannah's brother—"

"One of your little charity cases."

"It was little," Aziraphale countered. "Well, it would've become big, had it gone on much longer, but—"

"You healed him," Crowley said flatly.

"A little healing," Aziraphale insisted. "And not pertinent to this particular discussion." He gave Crowley a level look. "Jenny and Jacob's injuries sound to be vastly different, and far worse. You might actually have to—"

"If either of us does anything like that, it will send up a flare." Crowley turned his furious gaze on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took a deep, settling breath. "You are right, of course. They all die eventually."

"Is that what you want?" Crowley was wrestling the car from the driveway into the lane. The front tires climbed onto the asphalt and straightened out, but the back end slooped wildly on the slick road. The wet surface was bright with the reflected light from the Bentley's headlamps. Crowley was driving far too fast for the conditions.

"Of course not." Aziraphale, whose heart was in his throat, did not attempt to conceal his exasperation, not only at Crowley's question but at this entire situation. "But you just said that you don't want to help. So, if not to the hospital, where exactly are we going on this absolutely filthy night?"

"Don't be facetious," Crowley snarled. "What else did Rob say? All I heard was that whatisname and his daughter were in a crash on the motorway."

"Jacob and Jenny," Aziraphale replied. "Apparently they are already as good as dead. The doctors want to take their organs."

"Barbaric."

"It is rather. But humans do so love to live. They will even take the body parts of other humans in order to do so."

The Bentley's headlamps were no match for the torrential rain. Crowley sat hunched over the steering wheel, trying to see past the sweep of the windscreen wipers. "Hannah will be devastated."

"A daily event in human life," Aziraphale said stolidly.

Crowley drove in silence for some moments. "It's because of him, Jacob, that we're here now."

"Here, in your car, or here, in the South Downs?"

"Both," Crowley said grimly.

"Actually, it's probably because of Hannah," Aziraphale said vaguely. "Her and her 'cousins.'" He sighed.

"What?"

"I suspect she might have—look, it doesn't matter." He groaned. "If we have to—" His voice died off, and he made a disgusted face.

"Reverse the process?" Crowley suggested. Just then he wrenched the car onto the main road into town, ignoring the blare of the huge lorry that came up close behind them, unable to brake on the hazardous road. Crowley gunned the engine and they shot forward. Aziraphale threw one hand up, fingertips leaving divots in the car's roof lining. He silently thanked Adam for giving the Bentley that extra bit of oomph.

It was against all the rules, even rules that applied to renegade angels, for either of them to show favoritism. For one thing, it put those select humans in celestial cross hairs. It was a sorry commentary, but true. Any human—even if they were rare and kind and exceptionally good—was at significantly higher risk of suffering a terrible end as a result of receiving divine attention. Ask any saint—nine out of ten a martyr—and they would almost certainly agree. What he had done for Rob and Timothy didn't signify, the blessings literally too tiny to be detected. But reviving someone on the edge of death, or worse, resurrecting them, _that_ would not go unnoticed. Mice didn't count.

"Yes, that," Aziraphale said. "If we have to do that, then we must—" He was thinking hard as he spoke, and paused as he considered how to word his thoughts.

"What?" Crowley demanded.

"Well, we must hide them in numbers."

Crowley gave him a swift look of comprehension. "Which would protect them. Yes."

"It won't," Aziraphale pointed out, "protect us."

"Quite the opposite."

The Bentley was racing down the High Street when the sign for the hospital flashed in the light of the headlamps.

In a fatalistic tone, Aziraphale said, "But I've thought it through."

"And?"

"If you lose your ring bearer, I will most certainly lose mine."

The Bentley nearly took out a warning sign as Crowley yanked the car into the A&E emergency car park. "Can't allow that to happen." He was grinning manically as he smashed his foot on the brake pedal. The car rocked violently to a stop. He set the parking brake and threw open the driver's door.

"I'm glad I've persuaded you," Aziraphale said, hurrying to catch him up. Blessedly, a huge overhead awning deflected the rain.

"Told you," Crowley said with tart satisfaction, "that you'd say it was your idea."

Aziraphale saved his breath for running. They entered through the ambulance receiving doors and immediately encountered controlled chaos. Crowley spoke abruptly to a white-clad figure, his tone peremptory, his manner authoritative. They had done nothing overtly to change their appearance; instead, they altered the perception of those around them. It was not something they did often, as it could fail when least expected, especially with children, the very elderly, and others who retained (or had regained) the power of imagination.

The person, a harried nurse, gave them directions. They went one way, the nurse, another. As they passed along the edge of the waiting area, overflowing with desperate family members, Aziraphale had a glimpse of Hannah and her family. They were listening to another white-clad figure, huddled together with their heads bent. Rob was sobbing into his hands.

Then they were in the patient treatment area, and Crowley pointed toward a screened-off bed, while he moved on. Aziraphale slipped behind the curtain separating one bed from another, and found Jenny. There were no white-clad figures here, and while he was glad of it, he also suspected that it was because there were others in more immediate need. They had done all they could for her.

She was alive, but only just, her breathing shallow and growing shallower. Aziraphale took note of the damage to her skull, the swelling in her brain, the fractured jaw, the twisting of her spine, the broken arm and hand. He would leave something minor, if for no other reason than to confound the doctors who had examined her and deemed her unsalvageable. The broken arm was easiest to repair, so he ignored it. A moment's concentration was all it took; her color improved immediately, her breathing eased, but she moaned and tried to shift her arm—he lessened the pain with a twitch of his finger.

Unexpectedly, she opened her eyes. "Mr Fell," she murmured, sounding as though her throat were made of parchment. He nodded and ran the tip of his forefinger across her brow. She slept.

From there he went from bed to bed, repairing desperately broken humans, some with injuries from the motorway accident, others damaged in household accidents, and at least two whose organs had failed from ill use or simple exhaustion. Before too long, he moved on from the emergency department, aware that the hospital was stirring around him, dismay turning to shock turning to disbelief turning to astonishment and joy. He occasionally passed Crowley as he, too, zig-zagged between patients. By the time Aziraphale had reached the first floor, he had treated a dozen children, one of whom had been terminally ill with cancer, an infant born too early, a half dozen adult women with varying complaints—a couple of whom would have had dire outcomes—and nearly twice as many men, two of whom would have been dead already but for heroic medical intervention. Hospital staff were growing as agitated as wasps whose nest had been threatened, trying to understand how patients just proclaimed beyond help were now sitting up and asking for dinner.

The last room he entered was dimly lit. It smelled of old age and despair. The body in the single bed was struggling to breathe through oxygen cannulae, every rise of the chest a desperate gasp, every fall a wheeze of agony. Aziraphale went to the side of the bed and gazed down at the very elderly woman who occupied it. Her body was failing but, as was too often the way of humans, it fought hard against the final beat of its heart.

She seemed to sense him standing there. "You've … come," she whispered, each word a barely intelligible rasp.

He nodded, though she did not see him as her eyes remained closed, even the lifting of an eyelid apparently too great an effort. "I can give you peace or time," he said gently, "but only a very little more time. Are you waiting for anyone?"

She was very frail, and would probably not survive the night unless he were to drastically change things. With a slow roll of the head, she managed, "No one."

"Would you sleep?"

"I can't." She gestured weakly toward the cannulae, her laboring chest. "I would."

He held his hand an inch above her wasted chest, and slowly, naturally, her lungs filled painlessly with air. "Oh!" Her voice was as soft as a rustle of leaves, but her eyes came open and she stared up at him, stunned. Her mouth relaxed into a small smile. She spent a few moments simply savoring the unlooked-for luxury of breath. And then she held her hand out, palm up. "Will you stay with me, Angel? Until I sleep?"

He perched on the edge of the bed, and took her hand, dry and light as paper. Her breaths came slow and deep, each a priceless mercy. Her smile gradually dimmed, and she whispered, "Thank you," and her eyes fell shut. Her chest rose and fell more slowly and, over time, there were long pauses between each breath. The moment came when her body stilled altogether. He held her limp hand between both of his a little longer, then set it at her side. As he rose to leave her room, others came hurrying in, alerted by shrill monitors he couldn't be bothered to hear. Standing apart in the shadows, he waited to be sure that they treated her with respect, and then, noiselessly, he left.

Crowley was standing next to the Bentley, hands in his pockets, watching his approach as he crossed from the ambulance entrance to the car park. "What was that, what you just did, as you were coming through the door?" Crowley asked. "It felt all angel-y."

"Surprised you felt it at all," Aziraphale replied. He stepped in close and leaned against him. "Just—peace. To quiet things down. Everyone seemed terribly overwrought."

Crowley laughed. He cradled Aziraphale's head in both hands and slowly brought their mouths together. "Let's go home, angel."

Once the car was back on the road, Crowley said, "It'll make the tabs, maybe even international press. Social media will go off its nut."

"Nothing to do with us," Aziraphale said. He noticed that the streets were empty and that the rain had stopped. "What time is it?"

"Well after midnight," Crowley replied. "Closer to dawn, actually."

"Is it." He watched the familiar streets rush by. "The only person who saw me is dead, so there won't be any witnesses."

"You have anything to do with that?" Crowley asked, inappropriately amused.

"I did, as a matter of fact." He glanced archly across at Crowley. "But she was hours away from dying anyway and suffering badly. I gave her a choice. She chose peace."

Crowley laid his hand on Aziraphale's thigh and closed his fingers gently. "Modern medicine isn't always kind."

"And humans seem to think that they should live forever." His brows went up as he remembered. "Oh, and Jenny. No one will believe her, if she should say anything."

The rain might have ended, but the clouds lingered. They came out of the garage into deepest darkness. The night was still and damp and smelled savory rather than sweet, the scent Aziraphale associated with autumn. It was something in the leaves, the drying grasses, the spiciness of some of the flowers bordering the stone walk.

He stopped in the foyer to hang up his jacket. As he closed the coat closet door, he noticed that Crowley was heading for the stairs. "Are we not watching a movie?" he asked.

Crowley stopped, one foot poised above a step. He pivoted and regarded Aziraphale doubtfully. "Yeah?"

"Why not? There's popcorn—"

"It's cold."

"I know someone who can warm it up. But I'll need a minute to make my cocoa."

Crowley visibly brightened. "Right. Okay." He came back down the hall and pulled Aziraphale close. "It's a good one," he said, and kissed him lightly. Together they went into the kitchen. It might be foolish of him, but Aziraphale wanted the demon close by. He was still a bit unsettled—he hadn't expended that much angelic energy in years—and was not yet ready to retire. It had been easy, and fatuous, to say that they would deal with the consequences of their actions later. Nor did he regret what they had done. But he did not want to lose this, and a small part of him—he would not allow it to be more—was already mourning its loss. 

In the kitchen he thrust those thoughts into the back of his mind. There was cocoa to be made and popcorn to be warmed. And a movie to be slept through.

* * * 

The majestic strains of a cello came from Aziraphale's phonograph. This one, he thought, was the one. Crowley had told him that music was expected for their wedding and, unless he wanted their guests to listen to Crowley's idea of wedding music during those moments when they were not saying their vows, he had better come up with something he preferred—and give it to him so he could put it on a "stick." Aziraphale did not question his expertise with gadgety things; he simply accepted that such things as music on sticks existed because Crowley said so. He raised the needle and set the arm in its holder. With the record safely encased in its jacket, he switched off the phonograph and was thinking about putting together a tray of treats when the doorbell sounded.

Earlier, the sun had burned off the mist and laid claim to the sky. It was a lovely, warm day. Only a few puddles here and there remained to remind them of the previous day's rains. Crowley had gone off to the walled garden with a number of chores he wanted to complete before noon; after that, he planned a trip to the garden center. He promised Aziraphale lunch if he would go with him. Aziraphale told him that no bribe was needed—but if he was offering, he was more than happy to agree.

Aziraphale opened the door. Hannah stood before him holding a basket. "Hello," Aziraphale said with a smile. "Tea? I was just going to—" He broke off as she seized his hand and dropped to her knees. "Hannah! What are you—?"

"I know it was you," she said, and lowered her forehead to the back of his hand. "You and Tony."

"Hannah," Aziraphale exclaimed, taken aback. "No." He pulled her to her feet.

"You saved—"

"Enough." He spoke sternly. "If you continue, I will send you away without tea. And I'll never know what smells so delectable in your basket."

"Aziraphale—"

"I mean it. Now, come along." He put his arm out to steer her into the entry and she stiffly complied. Her knees, he imagined. She was a bit old to abuse them in that fashion.

"They're all calling it a miracle," Hannah persisted, but she sounded a little steadier. "Only old Mrs Everleigh died, and they said she went peacefully." Aziraphale took a deep, fortifying breath and led her into the kitchen. "Jenny—Jenny's head wound, it was terrible. It was the worst of her injuries but not the least. Jacob's chest was crushed. Alan Dilson and his wife suffered terrible blood loss, and Gene Marler's leg was almost torn off, but—"

"Hannah," he said, interrupting the flow of her words as he pulled out a chair. He waited with some impatience until she sat. "I know all there is to know about last night. And I would rather not discuss it."

The woman realized she was still gripping the handle of the basket and set it in the middle of the kitchen nook table. He saw by her expression that she meant to say more, but what came out was unexpected. "Aziraphale, we lured you here. My sisters and I. We learned Tony was searching for—"

He raised a hand to stop her and was pleased when she obeyed. "I know," he said. She stared up at him, stricken. He smiled wryly. "Or, at least I suspected." He gave her shoulder a quick pat and went off to the sink to fill the kettle. "I trust that there was nothing nefarious involved, but I have wondered whether you persuaded your brother to fake his fall, so that this place would come available when it did."

"What?" Her eyes went blank and she looked briefly bewildered. "Oh, no. He stumbled on the path. It was his balance. Because of the brain tumor." She sucked in a breath and said meaningfully, "The tumor that has vanished."

"Ah. He knows?"

"Yes. Well, not that you had anything to do with it, of course. But you did, didn't you?" When she saw that he would not answer, she continued, "He knows that the tumor is gone. He's like a new man, Aziraphale. Young, almost. And his mind is his own again. He was always clever. It was so sad to see him lose that."

"Does he regret selling the cottage?"

"No." The question seemed to fluster her, as though she hadn't thought about it. "No," she said again, with greater certainty. "He loves living with Jacob and his family. And they adore him."

Aziraphale spent a few moments organizing the tea things. He carried the pot to the table, then returned to the kitchen for a couple of plates and utensils. As he sat down, he commented, "I was surprised that it was he who called last night, and not you. May I?" He gestured at the basket.

"Oh, yes. Please."

He peeled back the linen to reveal still warm scones and freshly made butter. Beneath the butter he found small jars of jam and honey. He murmured his pleasure as he prepared their plates. 

Hannah split her scone, but held the knife suspended above it while Aziraphale added honey and jam to his. "I—I know you and Tony can do things. My garden; my hives; Tim's bee sting—I know that was you; both he and Jenny told me. And Rob." She lowered her hand and set the knife on the plate. "Last night the doctors said there was no hope." The words came out in an agonized whisper. "They'd already begun talk of taking their organs. I didn't think even _you_ —"

Aziraphale hid a tiny smile. "You should ask Crowley about his mice." He heard what he had just said and quickly corrected himself, "No, on second thought, please don't." He poured their tea and prepared his mug to his satisfaction. "And what did the doctors say this morning?"

"Jenny has a broken forearm. They couldn't explain that, since her other injuries were completely healed. She thinks it's 'cool,' and Tim is envious. Jacob remembers nothing of the crash, and didn't understand why he woke up in a hospital bed when he seemed to be fine—aside from a couple of sore ribs."

Aziraphale was all innocence. "Ah."

"Jenny said she saw you last night." Hannah shrugged. "I told her she must have dreamed it."

"No one can know," Aziraphale agreed. "Whatever you suspect, whatever you think you know—it can only put you, and us, in danger." He added pointedly, "Your brother said he overheard you talking about us."

Her shoulders slumped. "I know when that must have happened. I thought he was napping. Honestly, I didn't thing he would even pay attention."

"I suppose we are lucky—this time—that he did."

Hannah breathed, "Oh!" She put her hands to her mouth. "It doesn't bear thinking on." 

"No." He gave her a moment to compose herself. "And what of the others in your group?"

She took a long, shaky swallow of her tea. "I've already spoken with them this morning. My phone started ringing early," she explained ruefully. "It was in all the news. Miracle hospital, they're calling it."

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said, just a little severely, "it must go no further."

She nodded her head solemnly. "I promise."

Aziraphale finished his tea with unseemly haste. "And now, I think I must share some of these lovely scones with Crowley."

Hannah smiled tiredly. "I know what a hint sounds like." She took her mug to the sink and ran water into it. "I won't forget what you've done." Aziraphale had risen too, and stood quietly waiting. "Anything, Aziraphale. If I can do it, I will. I am in your debt."

He walked with her through the porch and onto the front steps. "Perhaps it is we who are in your debt, Hannah." She looked up at him, mystified. "For luring us here." His smile was wry and gentle.

"Best thing we ever did," she whispered. Tears started in her eyes again, and she turned away. She made a noise between her teeth and her cats, which were waiting on the stone path, rose as if one.

He watched them walk away, the cats gamboling behind her, until the last tail had disappeared into the tall trees. He inhaled deeply. The morning air was fresh and damp. Yesterday's chill had given way to a mild day with a promise of heat later. 

His thoughts wandered back, almost a year ago. When Crowley had first brought up the notion of leaving London, leaving his bookshop, he had instantly opposed it. But the possibilities had one by one occurred to him, with the most crucial being the idea of sharing a home with Crowley, the creature he had fallen in love with so very long ago. They would never have dared to consider such a thing before—well, before they had found the strength and will to defy Heaven and Hell, anyway.

He did not doubt that a coven of witches could have influenced Crowley's search—his search, not the demon himself. It would have been Jacob who had been affected and directed; Jacob, who, in working for Crowley, had forged a connection and had been allowed a bit of influence. Of course he hadn't pointed that out to Hannah. Let her think that she and her group had, indeed, lured them here. 

It was true, of course, that humans with access to strong occult energies could interfere with supernatural beings—though the outcome was rarely what they hoped for, or in any way to their liking—but Crowley was far more resistant than most demons to that sort of sway. In this case it was only because his interests had aligned with theirs that there was even an appearance of his having been manipulated. Rather as Aziraphale's desires had dovetailed so neatly with— 

His thoughts stuttered to a halt.

Aziraphale went back inside the cottage and returned to the kitchen nook. As he finished his scone, cold now but still delicious, he let his mind replay all of those interactions with Crowley which had led to his agreeing to moving to the South Downs. Here, to this cottage. Licking his fingers clean, he sat for a long while, thinking.

* * * 

"Lured! I wasn't lured," said Crowley, outraged. They were waiting for their lunch at the garden center cafe, seated at a corner table that Aziraphale had chosen for its comparative privacy. "That's what I do, luring."

Aziraphale raised his cup to his lips. The coffee here was exceptional. He smiled disarmingly. "And me?" he asked, his features carefully composed. "Was I lured?"

He saw the instant the question revealed the treacherous chasm at its core. "Uh—You can't think that I'd—"

"Can't I?" In fact Aziraphale had spent so long mulling the idea while sitting in the kitchen with fresh tea and a second scone, that he'd lost track of the time. When Crowley had come through the door from the conservatory, he had only then remembered that they were coming here, to the garden center.

A range of expressions flickered across Crowley's face, each more alarmed, more distressed than the one before. He bit his bottom lip. "Maybe?" he said, sounding worried. "A little?"

After setting the cup on the table with great deliberation, Aziraphale folded his arms on the wood surface in front of him. "By you."

Crowley exhaled sharply. "Yes." And then he began to speak very quickly, half defensive, half angry. "I was afraid of what they would do. It made more sense to go somewhere else. Out of sight, out of mind, right?" He caught his breath. "Aziraphale, they were going to walk you into hellfire! They were going to destroy you." He growled. "Gabriel is a righteous pr—. Talk about holier than thou. Hellfire in Heaven! He should've been struck by—" Uneasily meeting Aziraphale's impassive gaze, he stated, "I didn't think you'd sell the bookshop. I didn't do anything that would've made you want to do—" He seemed shocked when Aziraphale reached out and took hold of his hands.

"Why here?" Aziraphale asked, gentling him with his touch. Crowley glanced around, confused. "Here in the South Downs," he clarified.

The question seemed to confuse him further. "You liked it here. Bignor—which we still haven't gotten round to visiting," he babbled, "it's close. Who knows, maybe the witches did point me in this direction. But I saw the cottage, and the library, and—"

Aziraphale released him as their server arrived. He exchanged pleasantries with her while she sorted their plates, and waited serenely until she left. Crowley was watching him with haunted eyes, oblivious to his food. "Have you decided what you're wearing to our wedding?" Aziraphale asked. He took a bite of his lasagna and murmured his appreciation. "Hmm."

This sudden change of topic served as a total rout. Crowley opened his mouth, closed it. After a few seconds, he stammered, "I—Yes." He said abruptly, "I love you."

With huge affection, Aziraphale said, "I know."

For an instant Crowley just stared at him. Then a slow, relieved smile brought dimples to his cheeks and he laughed out loud. Aziraphale's reply had echoed the lines in the movie they had watched in the early morning hours. 

"I sold the shop because I wanted to," Aziraphale stated. "It was time." He took another bite of lasagna, which he chewed thoroughly before continuing. "And I have decided that I don't mind that you—" he spoke amiably, but with a hint of reproach "—gave me a prod."

Crowley, still looking contrite, muttered, "Well, it wasn't even that. If it had been—"

"I would have noticed, yes."

Studying Aziraphale's face, Crowley leaned forward. He said with quiet, but fierce defiance, "I would do it again, Aziraphale. Your lot is even worse than mine, and that's saying something."

Aziraphale set his fork down and sighed. Raising his mug, he said, "Well, there was another talisman at the bottom of the basket that Hannah brought over this morning. About the size of a Loeb Classic, and it packs a wallop."

"Enough to do us any good?"

"Unlikely," Aziraphale replied gloomily. "In the first place, I have no idea what it's meant to do, or, for that matter, what to do with it." He raised his fork and gave it a little twirl. "Throw it at whoever shows up first? Well, it does have some heft." He did not mention that Hannah had continued to strew charms and talismans outside the cottage. Sometimes, just going through the front door made his teeth zing. He had not pursued any further conversation with her about what she and her coven were anticipating. Perhaps he really did not want to know. "I doubt that they can comprehend what they're hoping to protect us from."

"How could they?" sighed Crowley, equally morose.

* * * 

Aziraphale slept little the night before their wedding. He sat reading while Crowley slumbered close beside him. Near dawn, he slipped out of the demon's arms and went downstairs to prepare their morning tea. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he let his thoughts fly wild—there was just too much going on inside his head.

The previous day, Crowley had taken Aziraphale to his salon for a pre-wedding trim and manicure—there would be no possibility of his fingernails or the tips of his fingers snagging on the fabric of his suit. To fill his time, Crowley had gone on down the street to a small DIY store.

In both places, the miracles at the local hospital had been the sole topic of conversation. Everyone, staff and patrons alike, knew someone who had been healed, even of minor complaints. They all loved the inconsistencies, too, which made the major miracles so much more exciting: the chronic, debilitating kidney patient cured, while a small cut on a fingertip remained (Crowley); the eye, blind for years, suddenly capable of perfect vision while its partner, which had suffered a blow, healed but still needing correction (Aziraphale); the child, its back broken in the motorway crash, made whole—except for a mild scrape (Aziraphale again); the middle-aged woman with a broken hip from a fall, suddenly sound—except for a small bruise on her ankle (Crowley). No one who had been a patient in that hospital, they said, had come out the following day not cured of something. Except old Mrs Everleigh, who had been very old and very tired, and they said she had been cured of life.

And then there were those who had been nowhere near the hospital—a woman with a chronic aching back; a child with an unremitting headache; an elderly woman suffering tinnitus; a man with painful bruising from a fall: all eased in an instant. Even pets had experienced improvement: a bitch in a difficult first labor; an older dog with arthritis; a neurotic cat usually found under the bed—all suddenly calmed and healthy.

On the way back to the cottage, Crowley had reported that there had even been reporters in the DIY shop, talking to random shoppers.

A little boggled, Aziraphale had said, "All those people outside the hospital: that was nothing to do with us. Mass hallucination, do you think?"

Crowley had flicked him a knowing smirk. "Over-enthusiastic angel, more like."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"That last spell you did—"

"Angels do not do 'spells'," Aziraphale had said, a slight edge in his voice.

"Blessing, then. When you were leaving the hospital. Told you, I felt it, too."

"But—"

Crowley had patted his leg consolingly. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. I've always said, if you're going to do something, do it with style."

"But—"

"Don't worry, angel. It'll just provide that much more cover for the ones we were trying to protect."

"Oh." Mollified, Aziraphale had settled his fingers on Crowley's hand. "Yes, I expect you're right." 

And now it was their wedding day. As the sun peered above the horizon, a haze of gold atop long rolling hills, Aziraphale acknowledged a frisson at the day's coming events. He carried the tray up the stairs and into the bedroom. 

Crowley stood in front of the window, tucking the curtains into the drawbacks on each side. He was naked to the waist as usual, his shoulders and back cast into sharp relief by the morning light. Aziraphale paused in the doorway and spent a long moment, unnoticed, watching him, while the demon stared idly out the window, absently scratching his collarbone.

Aziraphale silently placed the tray on the chest at the foot of the bed and padded, equally silently, up behind Crowley. Pressing a kiss against the nape of that long neck, he wrapped his arms around him. Crowley murmured a wordless welcome and leaned back. "You should have your tea before it gets cold," Aziraphale said, but he allowed his hands to wander down the furry slope of his chest, lower over the smooth concavity of his mid-section, where they stilled.

Crowley murmured, "We don't have to wait."

Giving him a tight squeeze, Aziraphale kissed his shoulder and said, "We do."

"Spoilsport." Crowley turned in his arms and kissed him back. 

After a lazy breakfast in bed, they took their time preparing. When Aziraphale came down the stairs mid-day, he found Crowley waiting for him, head cocked back, an approving smile on his lips. Aziraphale stopped mid-step to give him a thorough going-over. Crowley had chosen a fitted frock coat over a pointed waistcoat and stovepipe trousers, all in dark grey. His heather grey shirt was high-collared and topped with a blood-red puff tie, a matching blood-red handkerchief in his jacket pocket. With the softer look of his hair, longish on the back of his neck, and tumbling onto his forehead, he was every inch the handsome Regency hero. "Very nice, indeed," Aziraphale said warmly.

Crowley was holding a small white box in his hand. He opened it as Aziraphale came close. Inside were two boutonnieres. "From the conservatory?" he asked.

"Hm hm." Crowley gave him the box to hold while he pinned a small grey-white orchid tied together with a spray of baby's-breath backed by a trio of perfect green leaves to Aziraphale's lapel. The orchid matched the color of Aziraphale's jacket. "Nice," Aziraphale breathed.

For Crowley's lapel, the orchid was the same blood-red as his puff tie and handkerchief. Instead of baby's-breath, it was tied with a sprig of holly leaves."Well done," Aziraphale said, and leaned just close enough for a kiss.

They arrived early at the register office to find the grounds wide open and the parking area empty. A special space was reserved for the Bentley. The registrar greeted them in the foyer punctually at their appointed time. They went upstairs to confirm the information they had submitted in the packet of completed forms. Then they briefly discussed the ceremony—her part and theirs; their vows; the music—Crowley gave her a stick that he had assured Aziraphale contained Bach's cello music. They started downstairs but near the bottom Julie stopped them. Crowley gave her his phone and she snapped some pictures, with a promise to return it to him after the ceremony.

"Will we be able to make a real photograph from that? Something we can frame?" Aziraphale whispered to Crowley.

"Yep."

A few minutes before the service was to begin, they crossed the threshold into their event room. Jacob, Rob, and Hannah were already seated in the first row. The children were hovering over their aisle seats. They had pride of place behind the chairs that Aziraphale and Crowley would occupy in front of the registrar's desk. On the other side of the desk were the nearly floor to ceiling windows, streaming early afternoon light. Two tall flower arrangements stood before the sash windows, and a smaller vase of red and cream orchids was on the registrar's desk.

"Hello, Timothy," Aziraphale said, and handed the boy a small round silver snuff box. On the hinged lid, worked with repoussé, were the figures of two cherubs. The boy, who looked smart in a white shirt, silver waistcoat and bow tie, tried to pry up the lid, but was being too careful with it. "Give it another go." This time the lid flew up. Inside, lying on a bed of red silk, was Crowley's ring.

"I'll be careful," Timothy promised, and coaxed the lid back down.

"I'm sure you will."

Crowley was remarking on Jenny's cast, which covered her forearm from the base of her fingers and thumb to just below her elbow. It was temporarily covered with red fabric. She was wearing dark grey trousers and a dark grey tunic with a high collar. She also wore a tie, but hers matched the red of Crowley's puff tie and handkerchief.

Aziraphale said to Crowley, "Somebody colluded on our wedding outfits."

Crowley gave his head a toss and made a pleased noise. Jenny was opening and closing the lid of the other silver snuff box that contained Aziraphale's ring, ensuring that she could work it come the proper moment. The lid was chased with a dragon exhaling stylized flames. "A dragon," she said, hushed, and traced the outline with a fingertip.

Aziraphale and Crowley went up to their chairs just as the registrar came in. She signaled to everyone to sit. The service went quickly after that. Aziraphale found that he was a little nervous, or over-excited, or a combination of both.

The registrar's words were a friendly buzz in his ears, seemingly coming from a long way away. When she asked them to stand for their vows, all he could see was Crowley, who smiled into his eyes with a vast tenderness. Aziraphale answered the question, "Are you, Aziraphale Fell, free lawfully to marry Anthony J Crowley?" with an almost normal-sounding, "I am." Crowley did the same, and then it was time for the words that would legally join them.

Aziraphale had a moment's doubt, wondering whether what he had composed was sufficient, in a very few sentences, to express the full magnitude of his feelings. Crowley lightly held his hands and watched him calmly from behind his dark lenses, waiting. "Anthony J Crowley, I take you as my wedded husband." His voice was clear and steady, but very deep and rich. "I swear to you that I will stand at your side until time runs out; that I will love you and keep you and forever be your friend. You are the best thing that ever happened to me." He turned to Tim, who held out the opened snuff box. Offering the boy a small smile of approval, he plucked the ring off its bed of silk. "With this ring, I declare you mine." He slipped the ring onto Crowley's finger and, much to his relief, it went over the knuckle to sit perfectly at the base of his ring finger.

Crowley whispered, "My turn?" Aziraphale tried not to smile. Crowley said evenly, almost matter-of-factly, "I take you, Aziraphale Fell," he emphasized _Aziraphale_ , "as my wedded husband." His voice dropped a note. "I promise that you will never regret this day; that you will never regret loving me; that the stars will go black before I stop loving you. All that I am is yours." He swallowed and looked at Jenny, who held up the open snuff box. "I give you this ring as a reminder of my promises; and with it, I claim you as my husband." The ring went on smoothly and easily.

They kissed, briefly and chastely, though Aziraphale wanted so much more. His insides were tight with close-held emotion. The registrar was speaking, bringing the service to its conclusion.

Someone was sniffling. The registrar directed them to resume their seats and asked the courtesy of quiet from their guests while she took Crowley and Aziraphale through the final paperwork, followed by the witness signings. She turned the music up a little louder, so the tones of a cello, beautifully played, could spread its peaceful notes over all.

At last they were set free. Julie, who had been a vague presence throughout the service, took a few final snaps, both inside the room and outside, on the steps. She handed Crowley's phone to him, offered her congratulations, and hurried to her children, discreetly wiping her cheeks. The children solemnly attempted to return the snuff boxes. "Yours to keep, if you want them," Aziraphale informed them. Jenny pressed hers against her chest and thanked him effusively; Timothy held his in both hands and beamed. "Thank you, Mr Fell," he said. Crowley drew a couple of envelopes from the inside of his jacket and handed one to each of them, their names clearly marked. "For later," he said.

When they were out of earshot, Aziraphale hissed, "You didn't pay them?"

"Nope." On their way to the car, they accepted hugs from Hannah and wringing handshakes from Rob and Jacob. "Crazy golf—with dinosaurs. Julie suggested it."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, "I've seen the sign, just outside of London. Near Kingston?"

"That's one of them. The dinosaurs make threatening movements and roar."

"Golf. Crazy golf." He shook his head as if the very existence of such a thing merited the end of civilization. "Well, I hope they enjoy that. I intend to give each of them a book."

Crowley nodded, his expression neutral. "On top of the snuff boxes. Good idea."

As Crowley turned the Bentley down the lane toward the High Street, Aziraphale asked, "Home? So we can change?"

"Yes. And maybe something more." He twisted his head toward Aziraphale, his expression dangerously alight.

"We don't have time," Aziraphale said precisely.

"Wanna bet?"

Aziraphale allowed himself a forbearing smile. "What happened to our honeymoon under the stars? Surely we can wait until then?"

"Ah—that's something else."

"Yes?"

"I made a reservation for tonight. For dinner and a room."

"Did you, indeed."

Crowley raised his brows. He said, quietly, "I want you on soft sheets. Husband."

Aziraphale's belly contracted. He squeezed Crowley's knee. "That's where we will consummate our marriage, then. Certainly more comfortable than in the gar—"

The car lurched as Crowley's foot slipped on the accelerator. Aziraphale looked at him curiously. 

"You want to—?" Crowley faltered.

"Do that? Of course," said Aziraphale, mildly. "It _is_ our wedding night." Crowley gave him a swift, searching look. In that instant, Aziraphale saw that the demon's eyes had grown huge and were entirely yellow. When Crowley didn't say anything more, Aziraphale went on, "I have something Barry recommended."

Crowley scowled. "Barry."

"My barber. Told him we were getting married. He said this stuff would be helpful—" Deciding it would be best not to continue that sentence—the man's presumption had rather shocked Aziraphale; but barbers, in his experience, were like priests in their never-ending quest for providing counsel, whether requested or not. He changed tack. "You don't want to?" he asked again, his voice carefully bland.

Crowley's entire face twisted. In fact, he looked as though he would rather chew off his foot than continue this conversation. "It's painful, all right?"

"So I've read. You—" he spoke delicately, "have some experience of it?" And held his breath.

Crowley grimaced. "Heard about it." His grimace deepened. "Heard it. You know, happening. Seen it." He growled. "Demon, remember? But I know you've treated humans, after—"

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale sat a little straighter and gazed resolutely at the road ahead. "Well, it won't be like that for us. And it is a part of getting married."

The Bentley turned onto the lane off the main road. "Doesn't have to be?" Crowley argued tentatively. "For us. That whole consummation thing, that was for a man and a woman. It was a way of proving that the—"

"Bride was a virgin," Aziraphale said in clipped tones. "Blood on the sheets. Witnesses. Yes, I do remember. So vulgar." He sighed quietly. "You don't want to," he said again.

For a good ten seconds Crowley said nothing, his attention fixed on the road. But his jaw was working and his knuckles were white, his hands curled round the steering wheel like talons. "Angel—" he started, the single word sounding like a plea. But he cut himself off and shot a strangely helpless look at Aziraphale.

"Yes?"

"Yes!" Crowley answered him, and his voice sounded like crushed glass. Then, almost fiercely: "Yes, I want to. I want _you_." He grabbed Aziraphale's hand where it still rested on his knee and his grip was hard. "But I don't want you to regret it."

"You can't hurt me, Crowley," Aziraphale reminded him with a smile.

"You can feel pain," Crowley fired back. He ground his teeth—Aziraphale could hear it—and gave him a brief, hard look before returning his eyes to the road. As he guided the car into their drive, he said sharply, "It'll be both of us, or neither of us. So you know."

"Oh." His insides fluttered. He really hadn't expected that, and the image that came to his mind was a little overwhelming. Mouth dry, he said, "Right."

* * * 

Julie and Hannah had been informed of Crowley's plans, so they had prepared a table of small sweet and savory snacks on the patio in their back garden. Aziraphale gave the children the books he had told Crowley about. Timothy, for whom Aziraphale could do no wrong, was thrilled, even though he had little interest, as yet, in Ancient Mesopotamia. Jenny, given a rare Latin primer, was simply bewildered. Aziraphale assured her that, once she mastered its contents, he would share the "good stuff" with her.

Hannah's family was a reasonably disciplined group, and Aziraphale was able to relax. He enjoyed a glass of wine and a small plate of chocolate truffles and meringues which Julie served him before sitting at his side. Timothy sat on his other side, and was going through the old book page by page. Occasionally he would ask Aziraphale a question—the reliefs of the Assyrian lion hunt kept in the British Museum, here in woodcut images, had caught his eye—and Aziraphale would readily answer, often to give him help in the pronunciation of a name.

Jenny stayed mostly with Hannah on his other side, though Aziraphale was amused to see her sneaking glances toward Crowley, who chatted with fidgety amiability with Jacob and Rob, who were seated opposite them, when she thought the demon wasn't looking. Crowley couldn't help it, of course; he was one of those creatures that attracted others even when he had no interest in them at all. His indifference was not born of unkindness. He merely perceived all humans as fireflies: flashes of light and life, all too soon extinguished, and therefore unworthy of any commitment on his part. 

Aziraphale watched him, too, his mind continually returning to their previous conversation and imagining the night to come. It wasn't something he'd given a great deal of thought to before they had decided to formalize their relationship. But the act of sexual congress was as much a part of humanity as breathing and eating, and since they had chosen to add that quintessential experience—marriage—to their human lives, it seemed the right and proper thing to do, the ancient ritual for a mated pair. The prospect of it, with Crowley, filled him with shivering anticipation. Crowley would be kind, he knew, and careful, and tender. And when he— 

He had to redirect his thoughts. He saw Jenny's eyes soften as she continued to watch Crowley while he carried on a conversation with Hannah about the renovation of her home, the former stables. He could be offhand with humans, cruelly dismissive. But he seemed to actually like Hannah, and by extension, her family. Aziraphale realized that Crowley had never been cruel to him, though he had on more than one occasion expressed exasperation. For that matter, he had never completely understood why Crowley had offered him friendship all those millennia ago; nor why, even aware of his demonic nature, Aziraphale had accepted it.

He sipped his wine, pronounced "Ashurbanipal" for Timothy, and thought, with a small stir of revelation, that he had been drawn, much as Jenny was drawn now, by the paradoxical qualities of Crowley himself. He exhibited more of the angelic virtues than most of the angels Aziraphale knew. Compassion, caring, protectiveness, even gentleness. He could also be selfish, erratic, demanding, and abrupt—like the humans he so admired and emulated. He preferred observing them at a distance, of course—if not at the cinema, then on the big TV in his study. But he had all of those characteristics, himself, along with a certain insouciance, and the combination was potently magnetic.

And, of course, he was shockingly attractive. Only Aziraphale was allowed to see his eyes, his intense, hooded, beautiful reptilian eyes. There was so much about him that ought not to work: his extraordinary slimness; the hair that, uncontrolled, went every which way; his angular face and long narrow nose; his high forehead. Taken together, embodied by him, they were a unified handsome whole, and, indeed, utterly desirable. As Jenny was finding out. As Aziraphale had discovered six thousand years ago.

But he had truly never understood what Crowley had seen, still saw, in him, though he had never doubted his devotion. They were opposites in so many ways. And his attractions were surely few. He liked his meals and it showed; he could be prickly and unpredictable; he was old-fashioned and prim; and he was a slave to his routines. Yet Crowley had always sought him out. He had told himself, in his rare darker moods, that it was because they were the only two of their kind to dwell on earth, simply propinquity, and that working together, being friends, benefited them both. Even if that had been true in the beginning, it had not—

His thoughts were interrupted when Crowley looked his way. He lifted his brows, dark arches above the black rims of his concealing glasses, and tapped a single finger against the face of his watch. Abandoning his musings, Aziraphale took a last drink from his glass and set it on the table. "Julie, Jacob," he said, "thank you for all of this. You've been far too kind."

Standing up beside his chair, Crowley added, "My thanks as well. But I hope you'll excuse us. We've a bit of a drive." There was more hand-shaking followed by a few hugs and another round of thanks. But at last they were back in the Bentley, finding their way through the labyrinth of residential streets in Jacob's still new community, toward the High Street.

"How far do we have to go?" Aziraphale asked. It was late afternoon now. He was surprised how much time they had spent with Hannah's family.

"Not far. We can check in, have our dinner." He gave Aziraphale a sidelong look. "All right?"

"Hm." Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Yes."

It was a pleasant drive along a hedge-lined road, surrounded by fields on all sides, save for the small chocolate box villages they passed through. For once, Crowley did not drive as if the forces of Hell were threatening vengeance behind him. He was at ease, even humming under his breath to some internal music, his wedding ring clicking against the steering wheel, keeping the beat. Aziraphale rarely saw him like this—on the road, anyway—and decided that he was as happy as Aziraphale himself to have the wedding and the reception—homely, as it had been—behind them.

The Bentley turned onto a broad, long road. At the end of it, at least half a mile away, were the stone walls of a castle. "There?" Aziraphale asked, impressed. "There," Crowley replied, and he seemed pleased by Aziraphale's reaction.

They drove through the portcullis and were met just inside the castle grounds by a valet. Crowley explained that he would not require his services and the man gave him directions to the covered parking area. He asked politely if they had any luggage, and Crowley directed him to the back seat. It was a single case, packed with a few items to see them overnight comfortably. The man attached a small label to the handle and took it inside while Crowley drove the car round the entry ring and into the protected area that had been marked out for him.

A brick path skirted the outbuildings. The exterior entry to the main restaurant, which was not yet open for dinner, was set back from the hotel. They passed it as they walked the path to the reception hall. Virginia creeper, already turning scarlet, smothered the stone walls, a delight for the eyes.

Inside the reception hall, Aziraphale, standing beside Crowley, looked up at the high, timbered ceilings while the check-in process took place. Lancet windows formed an arrow up to the center of the gabled peak. They drew in the last of the day's light through glass panels divided by diagonal muntins. He did not remember having been here before; if he had, it would have been a very short, unremarkable visit. According to the brochure he found on the counter, the castle dated back to the 1100s. He took it with him when Crowley said, "Come on, angel."

Their room was on the ground floor, with a view of the lawns and, on the other side of narrow French doors, a private patio enclosed by iron railing. There was a sign next to the door that said: _Please keep the door closed to prevent peacocks entering._ Aziraphale read this aloud, amused by the eccentricity of it.

Crowley muttered, "So long as the noisy bastards don't wake us up."

"Should be past their mating season," remarked Aziraphale comfortingly. 

The room was charmingly furnished. The original stone walls had been plastered over in an uncontroversial shade of beige, except around the windows and the arched, Tudor style doorways, where the stone was allowed to show through, polished and clean. The doors themselves were constructed of solid oak boards with iron strap hinges. There were lancet windows here, too, and as this room faced west, light spilled between the squared muntins and showered the room with the thickening colors of the lowering sun.

The bed was set on a skirted pedestal and stood squarely between the entry door and the door to the bathroom. The oversized headboard, the same shape and size as the Tudor doors, was covered with a thickly padded fabric decorated with Tudor roses. Crowley went to the side of the bed and sat down. He held out his arms and Aziraphale went into them immediately. Crowley laid his cheek against Aziraphale's middle. "Are you hungry?"

"According to the brochure, the restaurant doesn't open until seven o'clock for dinner."

"I've arranged a private room," Crowley informed him. He bent his head back and Aziraphale curled forward to kiss him. "Need to be ready in fifteen minutes."

"Then, yes. I'm hungry. And I'll be ready."

Their private dining room was large enough to accommodate a dozen people, but there was a small bistro-style table with two chairs set in front of another tall lancet window, and that was where they chose to be seated. Their waiter was friendly and polite as he handed out menus, took their drinks orders, and then left them alone for a few minutes. While he was gone, Aziraphale took in their surroundings. The window was hung with heavy red damask curtains that matched the fabric covering their chairs. 

"It's all lovely," Aziraphale said. "Have you been here before?"

"Once. The winter of the Great Pestilence."

"Ah."

"Not my doing," he said immediately, in case there was any doubt. "I didn't bring it here, I mean." He was fidgeting with his water goblet, the stem caught between his fingertips, as he rolled it back and forth. "Came to do a couple of temptations. Didn't have the heart when I saw what was happening."

"That was a dreadful time," Aziraphale agreed, remembering his own experiences of those years. Since the bubonic plague recurred over a number of decades, there were far too many memories to be had. "You'd never know it," he added, gesturing at everything around them.

Their waiter returned carrying a tray. There was a basket of freshly baked bread—Aziraphale inhaled the rustic, yeasty scents with pleasure—and bottles of still and sparkling water. He chatted briefly with them while taking their meal and wine orders, and disappeared once more.

Aziraphale thickly spread butter on a slice of bread and softly moaned his pleasure as he took his first bite. Crowley watched him closely, only reaching for a piece for himself when Aziraphale proclaimed it "scrumptious."

They finished their starter and were awaiting their main dish, when Crowley pulled a packet from his inside jacket pocket. It was, Aziraphale noted, a little larger and thinner than a Loeb Classic—his standard measure for all things in that size range—wrapped in red velvet fabric and tied with a gold ribbon. He set it on the table and pushed it across. Aziraphale smiled and reached into his own jacket. A small box wrapped in blue and tied with a silver ribbon appeared; he rolled his wrist with a flourish. He laid it on the table next to Crowley's hand, wanting very much to touch him—more than touch him—but restraining himself until they had been served and were alone again.

"You've done so much," Aziraphale said. "It'll be my treat next year, when we return for our anniversary."

"Unless we find somewhere else we'd rather go," Crowley said.

Aziraphale dipped his eyes, just for a second. "I'll make sure you want to remember our first time here." He looked up, full into Crowley's face, and the hungry desire he saw there was a reflection of what he was feeling himself.

By silent agreement, they waited until their desserts were in front of them and their wine glasses filled before opening their presents.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed. He reverently held the slip of ancient papyrus sealed between two thin layers of glass, studying the just visible text. He said sharply, "This must be illegal. I've searched for this document for centuries. How—?"

"You can donate it to the BM—or the museum of your choice—once you've indulged yourself," he said dismissively, though he was grinning, and not as if he had spent a small fortune to get something that he knew would please Aziraphale. "Your friend—" he spread his fingers to indicate that names were generally insignificant "—at the auction house. She put me in touch with someone, who put me in touch with someone, who put me in touch with someone else. I made sure it can't be traced back to us."

"Did you read it?" Aziraphale said faintly. "It—oh my!"

Crowley's grin widened. "Couldn't be bothered."

Aziraphale blinked up at him. "Thank you," he whispered. "Oh, Crowley."

But Crowley was busy opening his own present. Once released from its wrapping, the gift proved to be a jeweler's box, blue velvet on the outside. Aziraphale waited, just a little anxiously, while Crowley opened it. Within was a densely linked gold chain with a pendant. The pendant was made of solid gold in the figure of a snake and its eyes were two perfect yellow diamonds. It seemed to move in the soft light, as sinuous as the creature who held it.

"Thank you, angel," Crowley said, his eyes gleaming as brightly as the snake's diamond eyes. He spread the chain wide on his fingertips and dropped it round his neck. He held the pendant cupped in his palm to give it closer inspection. When he dropped it below the opening of his silk shirt, he flattened his hand over it, and looked at Aziraphale. He reached out and gripped his hand. He did not need to say anything more.

* * * 

Champagne in a bronze ice bucket and a small tray artfully stewn with specialty chocolates awaited them in the room. "Ah, lovely," Aziraphale said. While Crowley locked the oak door, he wiped the bottle with the towel left next to the bucket for that purpose and proceeded to open it. Expertly he unscrewed the cork into his palm, and spilled not even a drop. He then poured the sparkling liquid into the first of the two flutes.

Crowley came up behind him and rested his chin on his shoulder, his forearms folded across Aziraphale's waist. He opened his mouth against the back of his neck and kissed him slowly and with purpose. Aziraphale ceased what he was doing, the bottle and the flute suspended mid-air. When Crowley let him go, he swayed a little, gratefully handing over the bottle and glass into Crowley's hands. Crowley filled the other glass and shoved the bottle back into the ice. He offered the first flute to Aziraphale who took it with fingers that felt clumsy.

"To us," Crowley said simply. "To us," Aziraphale repeated, and they tapped their glasses together. It was an excellent choice, and Aziraphale savored it as it flowed down his throat. Crowley put his flute on the table, eased the stem of the other from Aziraphale's fingers and placed it next to his own. Framing Aziraphale's face between his hands, he kissed him again. 

Even after almost a year of increasing intimacies, Crowley's mouth still had the power to undo him. He was gentle, he was demanding, he was searchingly tentative—sometimes all in the same kiss. Ignoring the tight knot of trepidation at what was to come, Aziraphale responded with equal fervor. He was married now, he realized with sudden exhilaration, and this creature was his husband.

They gravitated toward the bed, shedding bits of clothing as they went. Crowley allowed his things to litter the floor—though he put his pendant on the bedside table—but tossed Aziraphale's clothes onto the chair that stood at the foot of the mattress. It wasn't long before they were at the side of the mattress and Crowley was easing him down and onto his back. "Wait," Aziraphale whispered. "In my bag; the outside pocket."

Crowley, naked, strode away on long legs. It took him only a moment to reach into the closet, open the case, and prise out the small tube. As he turned back, Aziraphale was pushing himself away from the edge—but he stopped to stare as Crowley returned. Aziraphale had seen him unclothed before—many times, now. But his physical beauty never failed to affect him, and no more so than at this moment. The duvet was cool against Aziraphale's back and legs. In contrast, the heat radiating off Crowley as he sat beside him, was unignorable. 

Looking down at him, his eyes half closed, Crowley laid his palm in the middle of Aziraphale's chest. He watched his own hand as it floated down Aziraphale's chest, fingers pausing to taunt a nipple, then continued downward until it closed around him. His eyes came back up to Aziraphale's face as he stroked and squeezed, his thumb brushing up against the tender underside of that most sensitive part of him. Aziraphale's breath came out through parted lips, a little hurried, a little uneven. He drifted, closing his eyes to focus on that knowing touch. 

He felt the bed move. Crowley came to lie alongside him, his own need pressing against Aziraphale's thigh. Kissing him, Crowley rose up, wedged his knee between Aziraphale's legs, and settled between them. Instantly, without meaning to, Aziraphale tensed. But Crowley soothed him with more leisurely, sweet kisses, rocking against him, his body hot where it met Aziraphale's cool skin.

Many moments later, he sat back on his heels, and reached for the small tube. He set it close to hand. He then stretched over Aziraphale again, and this time he brought back a pillow. "It'll be easier," he explained, his voice tight. "Lift up." Aziraphale, aching with need, but rattled now that the moment was upon him, obeyed. Crowley pushed the pillow under him. And, then, rubbing Aziraphale's thighs with the heels of his palms, Crowley bent down and took him into his mouth. For long, long breaths, Aziraphale could think of nothing but that warm, wet haven, the tug of suction, the swirl of tongue. But before he could succumb, Crowley pulled back. 

Now he opened the tube, the musky scent of its contents rising into the air. He squeezed a little onto his palm, sniffed it. Then, gingerly, he applied it to himself. Watching him from beneath his lashes, Aziraphale felt his insides clench. What little control he had left was fast escaping. But Crowley then stroked some of it against him, between his legs, and his nervousness returned. He closed his eyes hard. Crowley couldn't hurt him. Whatever discomfort he experienced, it would be fleeting. 

Crowley pressed against him, as if testing his body's resistance. He was speaking under his breath, had been for some while, a husky monologue of sounds. The words batted at Aziraphale's ears like moths, almost meaningless. But he heard his name, he heard the word "love," he heard Crowley call him "mine," he heard "angel" —and then Crowley pushed hard, once, and suddenly they were skin to skin, joined. 

But there was also pain, a mean, gripping shock of it. Aziraphale gasped, then clenched his teeth to keep from doing it again. He had not imagined that a small group of nerve-endings could wield such power. Their objection to being used this way was ferocious. But it really was only a matter of several seconds before the spasming muscle began to relax. As his thoughts cleared, Aziraphale realized that Crowley was holding himself with rigid control and had not moved at all since that first stroke.

Aziraphale looked up just as Crowley lowered himself onto his forearms. "I can stop," he said roughly, and Aziraphale could hear, in the gravel of his voice—and feel, in the tension of his body—what this control was costing him. "I've known priests who sanctioned marriages for less."

Aziraphale conjured an unsteady smile. "What did you tempt them with?" Crowley scowled at him, and that made Aziraphale laugh—which caused another small twinge. "Only if you want to." He reached up and pushed a curl off Crowley's forehead. "Stop, that is."

"Aziraphale," Crowley growled, but with a hint of a whine. His entire body was taut. Stop or go, he had to do one or the other, and he had to do it soon, Aziraphale could tell.

Pulling his head down, Aziraphale sighed against his lips, "Get on with it, you fool."

Crowley covered his mouth, and his kiss was desperate, wanton. At the same time, he flexed his hips, drew back just slightly, and then pushed forward again, their bodies closer than they had ever been.

It was this totality of possession that Aziraphale had wanted, and now that the pain was receding, he immersed himself in the experience. He seemed hyper-aware of each point of contact, not only where they were joined, but everywhere: his belly and chest as Crowley brushed against him; his thighs, stretched apart by narrow hips; the hand that cupped the back of his head; his own hands where they grasped Crowley's arms. And Crowley's mouth, at the base of his throat now, lips and teeth leaving their mark.

Aziraphale slid his hands down to Crowley's hips, lower. He began to move with him at last, and was just discovering that there was pleasure to be had for him as well, when Crowley rocked forward one last time and groaned into Aziraphale's shoulder, his body quivering with the intensity of his release.

They lay there, like that, locked together, and Aziraphale would have wondered whether Crowley had fallen asleep, save that one hand continued to caress him, those long fingers gliding over his flanks, his thighs, his chest. Crowley raised his head and cast a close look over Aziraphale's face. Then he kissed him again, and, while Aziraphale was distracted, he pulled out. Aziraphale's involuntary gasp was lost between their mouths. It had not really hurt, not this time. But he was confused to find that he felt both relief and loss.

Crowley gathered him into his arms, a low wordless murmur rumbling in his chest, strangely soothing where it sounded beneath Aziraphale's ear. He knew to the second when Crowley fell into a light doze. Cocooned in his warmth, he allowed himself to drowse as well. After all the bustle of the day, he took comfort in simply being. His own sense of urgency, so pronounced a short while ago, had quite melted away. Here, for the moment, he was profoundly content.

He roused immediately when Crowley slipped out of his arms and went over to the table where the ice bucket and tray of chocolate waited. He emptied their warm drinks into the bucket and filled them with fresh, chilled champagne. Aziraphale hitched himself up against the innumerable pillows at the head of the bed and pulled the duvet up to his waist. Crowley handed him one of the flutes and set the tray on the duvet between them, by their knees. Aziraphale lifted the cover so Crowley could sit beside him without having to set his glass down.

Their glasses chimed together and they both drank. Crowley stretched out a hand and caught the tray between finger and thumb. He set it on Aziraphale's lap. "You're coddling me," Aziraphale said. But he picked up one of the chocolates, the scent of it rising into his nostrils as he put it into his mouth.

"Am not," Crowley said. "Feeding you up."

"Hm?" He let himself float as the chocolate broke between his teeth and flooded his tongue with a cherry liqueur. "Hmmm." It was rich and sweet—the perfect amount of sweet—and the blend of dark chocolate and cherry essence was balanced exactly right. He scanned the tray. There was another piece that appeared to be the same. He nudged it toward Crowley. "Why would you be feeding me up?" he asked, as Crowley declined the sweet with a shake of his head.

"It's your turn."

Aziraphale's eyes shot up to Crowley's face. "It doesn't have to be," he said casually. 

Crowley tilted his head. "Told you, Aziraphale, it has to be both of us. Unless," and his expression was thoughtful and rather cunning, "you're inviting me to have another go?"

"Ah." Aziraphale pretended to think about it before nodding. "Yes, of course." He wrinkled his nose. "But, maybe, not just now? Or, even, today?"

Crowley's lips curled into a wicked grin. He had known how Aziraphale would answer. He drained his glass and set it on the bedside table. "Then it's still your turn." He pushed a chocolate closer to Aziraphale's hand.

Aziraphale eyed him curiously. "But you would, again, if I said yes?"

Leaning close, Crowley mouthed his ear. "It's special, angel. You'll see."

Squirming a little, Aziraphale raised his mouth for a kiss. Crowley obliged, the taste of champagne and chocolate mingling in their mouths. As they broke apart, and held at once by Crowley's hypnotic eyes, Aziraphale murmured, "I suppose I shall."

He took his time finishing his champagne, hoping, possibly, that Crowley might fall asleep again, which would give him a little more time to think this through. But there were still two pieces of chocolate in the tray when he decided he must not eat any more. Crowley, who sat now with his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, had been occupying himself by forming whorls with his fingertips in the snow white, curly hair on Aziraphale's chest. He noted at once that Aziraphale's glass was empty, and the last of the chocolate remained untouched. He placed them on the table, out of the way.

"How do you want me?" Crowley asked, turning back to him. His fingertips followed the line of hair down Aziraphale's torso to his belly. His mind blanked as that hand closed around him. 

"I—I don't know. How—?" He caught Crowley's fingers and held them still. Sitting up a little higher and pushing back against the pillows, he asked, faintly, "Suggestions?"

The wicked grin reappeared. "Yes." His dragged the word out, his voice low and seductive, and this was a demon of temptation. Aziraphale watched doubtfully as Crowley wriggled out from under the duvet and snagged the tube off the table. And then he bared and straddled Aziraphale's legs. Curling forward, Crowley kissed him, taking his time, and Aziraphale found himself relaxing into his touch. The urgency that had abandoned him was slowly rebuilding, aroused by the fervor of Crowley's kisses, the cleverness of his deft fingers. 

He was so intent on Crowley's mouth that he lost track of his hands. At first he was confused when Crowley began to spread slick, viscous fluid onto him. Dazed, he broke free of his mouth to protest, "Ah, Crowley, stop. If you keep doing that, I—" But before he could formulate a complete sentence, Crowley crowded close, went up on his knees, and, holding him centered, lowered himself onto him.

"Oh!" He clutched Crowley's upper arms, his first instinct to move, to bury himself even more deeply inside that incredible, crushed velvet depth. This position didn't allow much freedom of movement for him, however, and that gave him a chance to remember what this instant had felt like—and to respect even more Crowley's earlier restraint. He slid his arms around his back, his palms flat against Crowley's shoulder blades. Head tilted back, so he could watch Crowley's face, he held himself still. Crowley had been right: Nothing they had done had been quite like this. It was special.

Crowley's head was bent forward, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open against Aziraphale's upturned face. His breaths were short and rapid, warm against his cheek. His fingers began to lightly rake up and down Aziraphale's back, and Aziraphale could feel some of the tightness leaving his body. "Aziraphale," he hissed suddenly, "Don't you dare."

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said, startled.

Crowley shook his head. "No blessings, angel." 

It wasn't something he would have done intentionally—but he could feel it now, that impulse to stop Crowley's pain. He forcibly squelched it, even though it felt wrong. Crowley dropped his shoulders and hunched forward to kiss him. And as he did so, he began to inch upward, very carefully and with agonizing slowness. Aziraphale's eyes rolled back in his head, and he clung more tightly to the demon, swamped with pleasure, lost in his kiss. As Crowley eased back down again, he could hear Crowley's heartbeat, a rapid tattoo beneath his breastbone—or perhaps it was his own pulse, clattering in his ears. After another long, lazy kiss, Crowley said, his voice laced with affection, "Get on with it, you fool."

Aziraphale breathed out a small laugh—and immediately obeyed. And then he was aware of only two things: the measured, steady rhythm of their bodies moving together, and Crowley's mouth on his. It was exquisite. And all too soon it was over, and Aziraphale, shattered and limp, came back to himself held close in Crowley's arms, while the demon comforted him with loving caresses and more warm kisses.

"Husband," Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's throat.

"Husband," Crowley agreed, and he sounded insufferably smug.

* * * 

Crowley drove back to the cottage by way of country lanes. The day was clear and mild, though it had begun drizzly and chill. They had risen early, and after taking advantage of the bed one last time, they had eaten breakfast in the restaurant. Afterward they had wandered the grounds, and by then the sun had parted the clouds and burned away the dew. They had encountered the pure white peacock which watched them sedately from a safe distance. Not once had it voiced its startling cry.

"Lucky for it," Crowley had muttered.

As they pulled into their drive, Aziraphale waved at the people completing the harvest of their allotments. Almost everyone waved back. The cats were waiting on the front step, as if they had been notified of their imminent return. Quinsy fell into step behind Aziraphale; Pox behind Crowley.

"That's a little unsettling," Aziraphale remarked and exchanged a frowning look with Crowley, who only shook his head. He reached down for the small case where Crowley had placed it and unlocked the outside door of the porch, while Crowley strode away to garage the Bentley.

A new talisman had been added—he could feel the tell-tale energy pouring off of it. He went inside the porch, where it seemed most intense, and scrutinized the walls and ceiling. Finding nothing, it occurred to him, then, that it must be mounted outside somewhere, which possibly made better sense—but it also meant that the talisman must be extremely potent to grate on him to such a degree. Protesting under his breath, he considered briefly that if Hannah had an inkling of what they were dealing with, she must know that talismans would do precious little to protect them from celestial intruders.

With Quinsy waiting patiently at his feet, he dealt with the interior door and then held it so that the cat could trot inside. He inhaled deeply as he stepped into the foyer. Gone not even a full day, and it felt as though the cottage had missed him. He put the kettle on, and while the water heated, he took the case up the stairs. Just as he returned, it clicked off. At the same moment, Crowley strode into the kitchen. "Take that up to the garden?" he asked hopefully.

"Very good idea," Aziraphale agreed. "I just need my book. Or, better still, you can show me how to look at the pictures Julie took at our wedding."

While Crowley visited his plant projects, like a general inspecting his troops, Aziraphale warmed himself in the sun, mug in one hand, Crowley's phone in the other. He had prepared a plate with biscuits and cake left over from their reception, which Hannah had thoughtfully stored in their refrigerator. She had always had a key, and they had never felt the need to ask for its return. When Aziraphale eventually bit into a small square of cake, one of several pieces he had added to the plate, he was grateful that they hadn't. 

Satisfied that nothing had molested his plant charges while they were gone, Crowley joined Aziraphale on the bench, and they scrolled through their wedding photos together. He promised Aziraphale that he could make copies of the ones they wanted. And then he rolled onto his side and laid his head in Aziraphale's lap and promptly fell asleep. They neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before. Aziraphale set the phone down beside his mug and stroked the demon's hair. He should, perhaps, worry about what Hannah and her group were concerned about. But, in this perfect moment, he could not be bothered.

* * * 

In the days that followed, they settled back into cottage life, but now without the stress of organizing a wedding. Crowley whiled away his hours in the conservatory and the walled garden; Aziraphale returned to his library, sometimes unpacking, sometimes organizing, sometimes just lazing in his chair with books or texts he hadn't revisited in years. But they were never apart for long, as one or the other inevitably brought tea and, sometimes, something to eat. While together, they would spend hours catching up on each other's current endeavors, or simply sit silent and close, content in each other's company. And other times, they made love, the joy of their physical relationship seemingly inextinguishable.

During the day, once they went their separate ways, the cats were always in attendance. The moment Crowley walked out into the conservatory, Quinsy slipped through the door and curled up somewhere she could keep Aziraphale in sight. Aziraphale assumed that this was Hannah's doing, though he was as fascinated as he was bemused that the cats were subject to her command. When rain kept them both inside, the cats did not appear; and, if they were together for more than a few minutes and obviously settled, both cats soon vanished. Crowley took to calling Pox whenever he went outside the cottage, and the cat invariably materialized. Aziraphale did not inquire whether the local mouse population was still experiencing inexplicable resurrections; he thought it best that he did not know.

As the weather shifted, and mornings and evenings grew crisp, Aziraphale decided it was time to make use of their gleaming modern kitchen. He found a newish recipe book in one of the drawers, which he suspected had come from Hannah—it was certainly not one of his—and began to spend a few hours a couple of times a week exploring the art of baking. Crowley was his judge of the end results, and more often than not expressed his approval. When he didn't, Aziraphale made a regrettable donation to Crowley's compost box. But when they were especially good, Aziraphale shared them with Hannah, providing more than enough for her and her family.

It was an idyllic time. September gave way to October, the beech trees on the ridge shone gold even under leaden skies, different varieties of creeper turned scarlet, late autumn chrysanthemums spilled over the sides of the urns in the front garden, resplendent in yellow, burgundy, and orange. 

Sitting in the window seat in the library late one afternoon in the middle of October, Aziraphale was peering down at the fragment of text in its protective glass sheath that Crowley had given to him as a wedding gift. Quinsy was on the rug, her brindled coat warmed by the rays of the declining sun. 

He put down the magnifying glass and raised his half empty mug to his lips. Just then, there came a shockingly loud noise from the front of the cottage, a terrible kind of shredding sound, as though something huge had demolished something else. Aziraphale froze, the mug inches from his lips. He noted out of the corner of his eye that Quinsy had levitated a foot or more and was now scrabbling across the rug toward the open door, through which she disappeared. The sound was not repeated, so Aziraphale set his mug, along with the ancient text, on the sill next to the magnifying glass, took off his glasses, and charily stepped onto the floor. He had just reached the front door when Crowley came charging down the hall from the kitchen, having evidently run all the way from the other end of the conservatory.

"You all right?" he asked sharply.

"You heard it?" asked Aziraphale. Crowley looked as though he wanted to shake him. "Yes, I'm fine. You must have heard that, too."

"Sounded like the front of the cottage was being ripped off. Stand back, angel."

Aziraphale scowled. "I will not. Open the door. We'll look together."

With a face like thunder, Crowley cautiously undid the lock and turned the handle. At first glance, they saw nothing amiss. They went out through the porch and onto the stone walk. They turned to look all around the front of the house and at the garden and surrounding grounds. Nothing. They walked—together, at Crowley's insistence—all the way around the cottage. Everything was as it should be.

"What do you think it was?" Aziraphale asked, as they re-entered through the conservatory, Pox and Quinsy following behind with ears flattened and tails lashing.

"It sounded," Crowley said, "like a giant bug zapper."

"A what?"

"One of those quintessentially human inventions, created solely to kill bugs. Insects. There's a big light in the center of a metal housing—picture a lantern—that attracts bugs, but when they get too close, they run into a mesh thingy that electrocutes them."

"Good Lord."

They walked into the kitchen and Crowley reached for the kettle. "Only this zapper would have to have been huge. Remember that movie we watched a couple of weeks ago? _Quatermass and the Pit?_ "

"Um…."

"You've got to remember it. Alien spaceship dug up in the Underground, people-size grasshoppers inside a spaceship—and embedded in the human psyche—" He continued to recount the plot of the film in some depth, concluding with, "—and at the end, the giant mind-controlling grasshopper projection thingy is killed by grounding it with electricity. Everyone stops murdering each other and the planet is saved! Bug zapper."

Putting biscuits onto a plate, Aziraphale confessed, "I might have fallen asleep during that one."

"You fall asleep during most of them, angel," Crowley said tolerantly, a statement of fact, not an accusation. He had filled the tea pot and added it, along with sugar and milk, to the tray. "Outside?"

"Yes. I've been in the library all day."

They sat at the table behind the cottage. The sun was close to the horizon and long shadows fell across the flagstones. Grateful for his cardigan in the cool breeze, Aziraphale poured while Crowley ate a biscuit. "So, if it wasn't a giant grasshopper, er, thing, what do you reckon?"

Crowley raised his eyes, his expression grave. "One of our kind."

"And it was—zapped?" Aziraphale stared at him, appalled.

"I doubt that Hannah and her pals could conjure something that powerful. But, blocked at the very least, yeah."

"'Our' kind," Aziraphale said with some alarm. "Yours or mine?"

Accepting the proffered mug, Crowley shrugged. "Dunno." He drank some tea, impervious to its raw heat. "But if it was one of ours, I think we can count on their making another attempt."

Aziraphale dipped a biscuit in his tea. "Ought we to tell Hannah?"

Crowley turned his head toward the two cats, which sat cleaning each other a few feet away. "I think they'll take care of that."

* * * 

There were new talismans in place early the next morning, even before Aziraphale brewed the first pot of tea. He could tell by the unpleasant itching sensation which seemed to prickle the inside of his skull at its base. It also buzzed, like a pesky mosquito, as if it were just outside his ears. He remained on edge over the next couple of days, a combination of dread at what might be coming and the aggravation of the talismans, more of which arrived daily. It was worse at the thresholds, as if those were the only possible points of entry.

Aziraphale noticed that Crowley's physical reaction to the talismans was less pronounced, which led him to wonder whether that signified which side the threat was coming from—the talismans perhaps tailored to some specificity of being. He didn't say anything, because really there was nothing they could do. And if a confrontation was being sought, it was better to get it over with, surely?

All the same, he stayed closer to Crowley, reading his book in the conservatory or bundled up in the walled garden, or sitting with his head on Crowley's shoulder while a movie droned from the big TV in the study. Crowley didn't question this, nor the early hour that Aziraphale joined him in bed, nor even the gently elegiac flavor of their lovemaking. It didn't need to be stated that a confrontation with their kind—either side—would likely not end well.

But being perpetually on edge was wearing and, after a couple of uneventful weeks, they began to drop their guard. It was one such morning, the morning of All Hallows Eve, in fact, and for the first time in days Crowley had gone off to the walled garden while Aziraphale finished a batch of biscuits, which were due out of the oven at any minute.

There was no loud rending noise this time, only a soft fizzing, like the almost inaudible zizz that fine grounds of coffee make when boiling water is poured onto them. Quinsy's bloodcurdling yowl lifted the hair on the nape of his neck, and he was shocked when she threw herself at the conservatory door. He opened it at once, and watched, shaken, as the brindled cat disappeared over the threshold. Only then did the significance of that fizzing sound register. Aziraphale glanced instinctively out the kitchen window, and at that moment, a form took shape on the stone path.

It was Gabriel.

Swallowing, Aziraphale watched him straighten his immaculately tailored jacket, give his head an annoyed shake, and turn toward the porch door. He waited, a half-drawn breath caught in his lungs, for the sound of the locks tumbling open. The handle turned and Gabriel strode inside. Aziraphale was facing his way when he stepped through the dining room and slowly approached, his eyes hard, his face set.

"Gabriel."

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said coldly. He stopped on the other side of the island and took off his gloves. Holding them in both hands, he made a point of rudely raking his eyes over Aziraphale, from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. He gestured at Aziraphale's outfit. "How domestic."

Effectively distracted, Aziraphale realized he was still wearing an apron to protect his clothing. He managed a smile. "Yes." Just then the timer went off. He shut if off with an automatic twist of the dial, and deliberately picked up two hot pads. "Would you like a biscuit? Tea?" He opened the oven door and drew out the tray of ginger biscuits, cut in the shapes of Halloween pumpkins, ghosts, and arch-backed cats.

"No." The single word was an indictment. Without saying anything else, he had condemned as frivolity what Aziraphale was doing.

Heat warmed his face. Some of it came from the oven, but Aziraphale knew he was flushing, as well. He doggedly focused on the job at hand. Forcing himself to speak naturally, he said, "A pity. They're quite good." He set the tray on the cooling rack, placed the hot pads on the counter, and peeled off the apron. Standing tall, with his hands clasped together at his waist, he gathered his courage and said, "Why have you come?"

Gabriel let his eyes narrow meanly, matching the thin smile on his lips. "Do I make you nervous, Aziraphale?"

Forcing a tiny laugh, Aziraphale replied, "Of course you do. Last time, there was hellfire and attempted murder."

"And hellfire didn't seem to faze you in the least," Gabriel remarked sardonically. "In fact, you took to hellfire as if you were as much a demon as your—"

"Hm, something smells good," said a voice from the conservatory doorway. "Aziraphale, have you seen my—?" Crowley walked into the kitchen, head bent over his phone. He looked up with well-timed surprise. "Oh, looky. It's the Archangel Fucking Gabriel."

Aziraphale winced inwardly. Not that he expected any chance of a detente, but Crowley's opening salvo pretty much scuppered the remotest possibility.

"What did you call me?" Gabriel demanded. His eyes glinted like lilac-tinged obsidian and the tips of his ears were pink.

Crowley raised his brows, then turned to Aziraphale. "Wait. Was it a secret, him saying that?"

Giving him a warning look, Aziraphale turned back toward Gabriel. He spoke mildly. "It _is_ what you said."

But Gabriel's attention was fixed on Crowley. "Heard you somehow survived holy water, demon."

"I did!" Crowley agreed. "But please tell Michael that she brought a little bit of Heaven to Hell." He grinned insolently. "I'm sure she's missed."

For a moment Gabriel did not speak, though the expert cut of his jacket did nothing to conceal the bristling going on beneath it. Aziraphale tensed, certain that the smiting was about to commence, and only wondered if he might, somehow, save Crowley from the worst of it. But he also understood the temptation to bait the bear—this bear, in particular—and observed in a friendly tone, "Heaven and hell, working together. It seems that a war wasn't needed after all."

He was dumbfounded when Gabriel only sighed heavily through perfect teeth and growled, "So it seems." And then he said abruptly, "Those aren't wedding bands?"

Before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley stated, "Nice, aren't they?"

Turning the full measure of his disgust onto Aziraphale, Gabriel sneered, "To him?"

Despite everything, Aziraphale found himself smiling. "Yes."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Gross."

It was Aziraphale's turn to bristle. "You haven't said why—" he began.

Gabriel interrupted him. "The Lord wants a word with you, Aziraphale." He made a face as he glanced sidelong at Crowley. "You and your demon … husband."

Shock and something like terror briefly stole Aziraphale's voice. He stuttered, "The L-Lord—?"

Crowley took a biscuit off the tray and bit into it. Speaking while chewing, he said, "Surely you didn't come here to deliver that message yourself?"

"No choice," Gabriel said stiffly. "Something stopped my—"

"Minion?" Crowley prompted.

"Lieutenant," Gabriel corrected him sourly. "From getting through."

"Can't you give us her message yourself?" Aziraphale asked politely, not completely concealing his panic.

"The Lord didn't confide in me, Aziraphale," Gabriel replied waspishly. "So, no, I can't."

"Ah," Aziraphale murmured. "Well, I'm sorry for the inconv—"

Plunging his balled fists into his pockets, Gabriel barked, "Contact the Metatron." And, in a burst of white light and the incongruously gentle tinkling of wind chimes, he was gone.

Aziraphale, letting out a long, shaky breath, turned toward Crowley. "You got here fast."

Crowley stuffed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. "Needs must."

"I suppose it won't add much to the list of our transgressions. Did you have to be so confrontational?"

Crowley tossed his head. "Don't like him." He picked up a biscuit and handed it to Aziraphale. "Eat. These are quite good."

Aziraphale, still trembling, ate.

* * * 

"Do you want help with the circle?" Crowley asked. He was sprawled on the sofa in the library, watching Aziraphale pace back and forth. They had been there for the better part of an hour, while Aziraphale alternately fumed and fussed.

"I suppose," Aziraphale said fretfully. "I don't know. Maybe."

"The message is for both of us, Aziraphale," Crowley reminded him lightly. "How awful can it be?"

Aziraphale shot back, "Why say the Lord wants a word with us, then tell us to contact the Metatron?"

Crowley shrugged. "That's what he's there for?" He set his wine glass on the side table and sat up. "Come here."

Hands clutched in front of him, Aziraphale went. Crowley pulled him into his arms, face pressed against the soft cardigan, and simply held him close. Aziraphale bestowed a small kiss to the top of Crowley's head. "I could use the help, yes."

"Where do you want to build it?" Crowley pushed Aziraphale's shirt and waistcoat up and kissed his rounded belly. "In here?"

"I'd rather upstairs. The corner box room. It will be easier to align the signs."

"Good choice." Crowley's hands were clearing a way for his mouth, bunching Aziraphale's clothing up until he could reach his chest.

Aziraphale sat down on top of Crowley's knees and tugged his shirt and waistcoat back into place. He bent forward and kissed him to stop that mouth from further exploration. "We shouldn't—"

"Why not?" He shifted around, and dumped Aziraphale onto the sofa. "Might be our last time." It was clear that he did not believe that at all. Following him down, he closed Aziraphale's mouth with another kiss, so familiar and so welcome, and further discussion—and concerns—were temporarily postponed.

* * * 

"Well?" Crowley asked. 

It was late afternoon. They were standing side by side in the doorway of the corner room. 

It had taken a good bit of work to shift the boxes and other paraphernalia out of this room and transfer all of it to the others, which were themselves overflowing. Neither had stated the obvious, that this was a task long overdue. But it stung to think that they had run out of time altogether. As they had lifted and carried, sorted and reorganized, Aziraphale had felt as if a chasm was opening beneath them. Of course he wanted to know what the Lord had to say, but more than that he wanted to go back to the way it had been, when they seemed to have shed their bonds, responsible to no one but themselves. He had insisted on a tea break once the room was completely empty. Then, with still more brute strength, they had scrubbed the floor and Aziraphale had blessed it.

After that, the creation of the circle had been fairly straightforward, if time consuming. They had meticulously adhered to the correct mathematical dimensions, and Crowley had shown artistic flair in the drawing of the required symbols. As they had moved from point to point, both could feel the power building within it, a thumping, almost bestial pulse that only went quiet when the last lines were closed.

Aziraphale spent another few minutes studying it for the most minute fault. "Yes." He sighed with resignation. "I think that's everything." He pointed at the box of candles in the corner nearest Crowley. The candlesticks, brought from the bookshop—and which bore no signs of charring or other fire-related damage—were in a case by his feet. They spent the next few minutes twisting candles into candlesticks and positioning them at their appropriate points.

"Another glass of wine first?"

Feeling wan and a little depressed, Aziraphale said "No. But I'll wait, if you want one." He had sobered up twice already and was feeling the worst for it. 

"That's all right. Just get on with it?"

"Yes. I'd prefer that. Crowley—"

They stepped into each other's arms and stood together for a long moment. Aziraphale really could not imagine what the Lord's intentions were. But at a guess, whatever she had in mind would alter their lives forever. 

"Chin up, angel," Crowley said, quietly, and gently kissed Aziraphale's mouth, a slow, soft, lingering kiss. "Ready?"

Aziraphale lengthened his spine, rolled his shoulders back, and nodded. "Yes."

With Crowley at his side, barely an inch separating them, Aziraphale placed his hands together, palm to palm, closed his eyes, and called, "Hello?"

There was only the sound of their breathing and the occasional crackle of the burning wicks.

Aziraphale held his breath for the count of a dozen heartbeats, then expelled it slowly. While doing so, he quietened his mind and summoned peace into the core of his being. He set his feet again, refolded his hands. "Hello?" he called again. "It's Aziraphale. Gabriel said—"

A shaft of light fell upon them, strangely gossamer-like and devoid of warmth. Crowley muttered something and fidgeted, but otherwise did not move. "Aziraphale," the Voice of God said, and the face that Aziraphale had seen before appeared. His were the features of a well preserved old man, with kindly but seemingly wise eyes. And the mellifluous voice had a serene quality to it, full of understanding and compassion. Aziraphale knew that this grandfatherly apparition was a lie, having experienced firsthand the Metatron's single-minded bloodlust for war at all costs.

"Yes, hello," Aziraphale said, assuming a cheerful, confident attitude. "Gabriel said the Lord has a message for me?" He waved a hand toward Crowley. "For us?"

"You are the demon Crowley?" the Metatron asked, and the peevish tone was unmistakable.

"That's me," Crowley replied.

The Metatron stared down at them, his face bathed in celestial light. Aziraphale couldn't make out his expression, but it seemed to have an edge of disapproval. Or, perhaps, that was only what Aziraphale was expecting to see, and he was imagining it. "The Lord saith—"

Another long pause, one that went on for so long that Aziraphale finally timidly prompted, "Yes?"

The Metatron cleared his divine throat. "The Lord saith that you, both of you, are to be …." But his voice trailed off again.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a sideways look from beneath his lashes; Crowley, with a baffled expression, shrugged back at him.

"We are to be …?" Aziraphale nudged.

The Metatron's face puckered, as if he had swallowed the entirety of a very sour lemon. "Commended," he finished flatly.

Aziraphale's eyes widened and he stared upward in disbelief and consternation. "Commended?" he repeated, the word almost a squeak. He could hear Crowley smothering a snort beside him.

The Metatron slowly closed his eyes and reopened them. "For your part in averting the war," the Metatron said sententiously. "You alone apprehended the Lord's Ineffable Plan." It was now obvious, even in the softening glow of celestial light, that the Metatron was miffed. "The Lord saith—"

"Go on, then," Crowley prodded. Aziraphale tapped his foot with the side of his shoe: the Metatron's eyes had darkened and there was a hint of lightning playing about his face. 

"The Lord saith, 'Well done, both of you,' " the Metatron intoned.

"Oh," Aziraphale glanced at Crowley again, and saw that he was grinning obnoxiously. 

"There is more."

Aziraphale's heart rate kicked up a notch. He should have known better. 

"Continue your good works. Grant small blessings; large ones, if you deem them warranted—with discretion, of course. Encourage fellow feeling. Make the world," the Metatron said, as if he were pulling out his own teeth, "a better place." One huge eye rolled toward Crowley. "No temptations."

Crowley, his own eyes wide and innocent, said, "Right. No temptations."

The Metatron paused again and Aziraphale waited, hands clutched together painfully. He opened his mouth, but the Metatron spoke first.

"Demon."

"Still here," replied Crowley, sounding both bored and amused.

"The Lord," the Metatron said, with heavy emphasis, "suggests an apple tree in your garden."

Crowley raised his brows, then inclined his head. "On it."

There was yet another long hesitation. Assuming that the conversation was coming to an end, Aziraphale quickly asked, "Metatron, a question?"

Sounding unduly taxed, the Metatron said, "Ask it."

"Why so long? It's been over a year since we—since everything—" Given the Metatron's apparent antipathy toward them, he didn't want to rub salt into obviously still raw wounds. "Why wait so long to tell us this?"

"So long?" the Metatron's voice rose to a bellow. In the small box room, it was deafening. "In Heaven, Aziraphale, where you would reside had you not turned down the offer made you by the Archangel Gabriel, time is a construct. In _Heaven_ , it has been but seconds since the Great War was averted." Whatever he was, the Metatron probably did not need to draw breath, and yet Aziraphale had the impression of something breathing very hard, even if the sound of it was imperceptible. After a short period of awkward silence, the Metatron added pettily, "And there is, of course, a very great backlog of bureaucratic busywork, thanks to—" And there he seemed to catch himself—or was that a chiding voice coming from somewhere near him, telling him to, what—? _Follow instructions? Be nice?_ Aziraphale shook his head. Surely, that could only be his imagination.

"Oh." Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale could see Crowley trying very hard not to burst into laughter. "Well, please convey our thanks to the Lord for her commendation," Aziraphale said to the Metatron, with what he hoped was appropriate deference. "We are honored."

The face continued to stare down at him, its expression grim. "One last thing," the Metatron said wearily.

"Yes?" Aziraphale asked nervously.

"The Lord saith, 'Congratulations on your nuptials.'"

The divine light switched off, not only going out, but seeming to collapse in on itself, leaving a kind of light vacuum. The westering sunshine coming through the windows and the gentle yellow glow rising from the candles were sickly and weak in comparison. On the floor, a couple of the candles were guttering and smoke was spiraling upward. Crowley dropped to his heels and snuffed them out. "Don't want the smoke alarms going off," he explained. "Makes the most blessed racket." Aziraphale awkwardly followed his example and pinched the flame off the wicks of the remaining candles. In a state of disbelief he faced Crowley across the circle. "Congratulations—!"

"The Lord saith," Crowley said cheekily. He waved Aziraphale toward the door. "Let's get away from this thing until it shuts down."

Aziraphale took just long enough to assure himself that the flames were indeed quenched before going into the hall and pulling the door firmly closed behind him. There, Crowley grabbed him and spun him around. "Crowley!"

But Crowley backed him against the wall and kissed him until Aziraphale was gasping for breath. "We're free!" Crowley exclaimed, the words ringing with exultation and not a little disbelief. 

"Well, not entirely," Aziraphale argued, but he was smiling, too, infected by Crowley's ebullience. "Good works, fellow feeling, make the world—" 

"—a better place. _And_ plant an apple tree! What is she thinking?" he said with mock outrage. "I'm a demon, bless it!"

"And well capable of good deeds. She must know that, mustn't she? All those times you covered for me, all those blessings and healings."

"Well, she knew we'd gotten married; doubt she learned about that from that old cur—"

"Hush." But Aziraphale was still grinning. "I had the feeling that he was being told what to say, didn't you? And he certainly didn't seem to like it."

"'You alone apprehended the Lord's ineffable plan.' If only she knew."

"She knows. You said it yourself, remember? 'What if she planned it that way all along?'"

Crowley leaned against him, his face turned into Aziraphale's hair. Only then did Aziraphale realize that he hadn't been the only one worried about what the Metatron had to say. He held Crowley gently. "I'm hungry," he said after a few minutes, his lips against the demon's neck. "And there are biscuits."

"Biscuits," Crowley breathed out heavily as he straightened up. "Sounds good, angel."

* * * 

The rabbit appeared out of nowhere. Aziraphale had a glimpse of grey leaping out of the hedge on the passenger side of the car. He barely gasped out a dismayed "Oh!" before there was a thud and bump that came from the Bentley's rear wheel. Aziraphale twisted, and sure enough, in the rear window he could see a small untidy heap in the road. He looked at Crowley, but the demon was already snapping his fingers. Just visible in the rapidly receding distance, the rabbit lurched to its feet and stumbled into the opposite hedge.

"Don't know why you can't do that yourself," Crowley muttered.

"One of life's mysteries that you're better at it than I am. Anyway, thank you."

Crowley shrugged. "It's Christmas Eve." 

"You don't celebrate Christmas."

"Then why have we been out all day doling out good deeds?" 

"Yule?" Aziraphale asked innocently.

"Saturnalia." Crowley's grin was as toothy as a shark's.

Aziraphale simply smiled back at him. "All of them have been full of raucous good spirits in their time. Which one are we celebrating?"

"Take your pick. I didn't get you a present."

"Of course not. But I did make stollen. And I could do up some biscuits. Angels are popular this time of year."

Crowley flicked a jaded look his way. "No demon ones, then?"

"Well, actually, Hannah brought over Devil's Food cakes. Will that do?"

"In a pinch," Crowley allowed. "As long as there's wine as well." He slowed the car to enter a junction. There were few other vehicles on the road on this Christmas Eve. The day was waning and they were finally running toward home. In the interests of performing good works—per the Lord's injunction—they had risen early and driven across the South Downs, zigzagging between villages, hamlets, and small towns, increasing the bounty of the local food banks in each one. It had been a long day and Crowley had said he wanted to watch a movie on the telly starring Clint Eastwood that was airing later that night, part of the annual holiday festivities for viewers.

Yet the Bentley turned up yet another narrow hedge-lined country road. "Wherever are we?" Aziraphale asked.

After a few more moments, Crowley turned the car one more time. He pointed at a signpost at the bottom of the lane.

"Bignor!" Aziraphale's face lit up. Still, he looked a little bewildered. "But it's late. And it isn't open this time of year, anyway."

"So?" Crowley asked. "Be more fun if it's only us." The narrow lane was winding and lined with hedges and trees. In some places, the trees formed a sweeping arch over the road to create a tree tunnel, their bare branches and twigs woven and intertwined together. When leafed out and in flower, the trees, shrubs, and vines would be quite spectacular, but now, in this skeletal form, were a little disturbing. At the end of the drive, they came out into a clearing, drove a little farther, fields on either side, and finally arrived at the car park for the villa. Crowley switched off the Bentley under some tall trees. 

They spent a couple of hours wandering the mosaic walkways inside the flint and thatch buildings which enclosed the intricate mosaic floors. Aziraphale remarked on the detailed work, the range of mythological themes, dawdling often to look over the railings at the colorful mosaics, visible in the fading light coming in through the windows, as well as the small glow Crowley had generated.

"I met the owner—well, one of them; the villa was in the hands of the same family for several generations," Aziraphale was saying, when they stopped to study the modern graphic that reimagined the owner and his family. Here, wearing Roman togs and a ring and brooch which had been uncovered in the excavations, he appeared tall and amiable. "In the, what we'd now call, early Four Hundreds, I suppose. He was a generous man, with a lovely family. Fell afoul of Roman politics and the general instability of the time, if I recall correctly."

"Saxons and the like."

"That, too."

"What brought you here?"

Aziraphale pondered the question as they finally returned to the car. He stopped beside the passenger door and, gazing back at the thatched buildings, said vaguely, "A blessing for a wedding? No, a birth. First son. It was summer—and the honey cakes were delicious!"

"Get in, angel," Crowley said, affectionate amusement in his voice.

They arrived back at the cottage just as darkness was closing in. It was a frosty evening, and Crowley went immediately into the study to light the logs in the fireplace. After changing into his cardigan and slippers, Aziraphale put together a plate of stollen slices and small Devil's Food cakes. Crowley joined him to pop a bowl of popcorn. They loaded a tray and carried everything into the study.

While the wine breathed, Crowley ventured out to the conservatory to feed the cats, which were visiting while Hannah was off with her family for the holiday. He reported back that they were comfortably established around the wall radiator and couldn't be bothered with food at the moment. He had left the conservatory doors ajar for their pleasure. When Aziraphale looked askance at this, he added drolly, "If anyone tries to break in, we'll know."

Aziraphale knew this was true. The cats had proven to be every bit as effective as the talismans in alerting them to danger. And now that the talismans had disappeared—blessed relief!—they were no longer in charge of cottage security, either. Quinsy still tailed him some days and seemed to view the library as her own, while Pox had not entirely given up his role as Crowley's assistant, and spent a considerable amount of time in the conservatory or walled garden with him. But the cats, like the talismans, had been allowed to stand down, and seemed to enjoy a less rigorous schedule.

He and Crowley settled in together, shoulder to shoulder, on the study's long and wide leather sofa, each with a wine glass in hand. Crowley had the bowl of popped corn on his lap and Aziraphale held a napkin with a slice of Christmas bread closed within it. He handled it gingerly to keep icing sugar from going everywhere. Crowley's movie, a decades-old western, began to play on the big screen TV, and Aziraphale, who in his long, long life had seen everything there was to see in terms of mayhem and human violence, was watching through squinted eyes.

He had just taken his second, very careful bite, when Pox and Quinsy bolted into the room, highly agitated and yowling at deafening pitch. Crowley sat up at once, slopping both popcorn and wine, which luckily fell onto the coffee table rather than his plush rug. "I'll see what's up," he said, and strode out of the room.

Aziraphale took greater care in putting his things onto the table. Listening intently, he swiftly mopped up the small spill of wine with a couple of napkins and then scooped the scattered popcorn back into its bowl. The conservatory was all the way across the cottage, but he could hear the faint distress of cats, probably all of the cats. So, he went upstairs and put on his shoes and just as he came to the landing, he saw the front door shutting. He grabbed his jacket and dragged it on as he hastened out of the cottage.

In the pitch darkness he could hear the cries of the cats and the crunch of Crowley's steps on the gravel ahead of him as they ran down the drive toward the lane. Aziraphale miracled a small light that fit in his palm, and using its illumination to guide his feet, trotted after them.

He had to pause at the bottom of the drive to see which way they had gone; the cats had stopped making their urgent ruckus. He first looked west, then east, and spotted Crowley just as the demon came to a stop next to something on the verge. This was clearly the source of the cats' anxiety, as they had all congregated around Crowley's legs and were now weaving back and forth around him and the dark object on the ground. As Aziraphale, chest heaving, joined them, he saw that the object was a small cardboard box, scarcely larger than a shoe box, and it was pitching from side to side. His brow furrowed as he saw that it was taped shut.

Crowley, to his surprise, ignored the box, staring down the lane toward the east, head back, nose in the air. The cats widened their circle of distressed milling to include Aziraphale, producing quieter, but still deeply unhappy and rather terrifying noises. He went down on his haunches, commanded the light to hover nearby, and turned the box right side up. Something inside shifted with the movement, something alive, scrabbling to right itself. And mewling cries—which he had not heard until just now, for all the cat din surrounding him—instantly stopped. The tape was the kind that painters use, easily ripped and removed—but very effective for sealing a container. Angling the edge of his thumbnail, Aziraphale sliced through the tape and cautiously began to lift the folded-down flaps.

All of the cats peered inside, too, making room with some reluctance as Aziraphale revealed the creature trapped within. A small, soot-black cat, its pupils blown wide with terror, was braced inside, its body plastered against the bottom. It glimpsed the other cats, and somehow it shrank further back. Its ears were flat against its skull, lips peeled away from its teeth, a dreadful, grinding rattle intermixed with short hisses coming out of its mouth. Its back end was gathered tightly, muscles coiled, ready to spring to freedom. It was clearly calculating its chances when Aziraphale said, "Shh." And just like that, the cat went still. Its ears came up and it subsided, paws curled beneath its body, sphinx-like. It chirped, perplexed, and began to purr. The other cats settled, too, though they continued to push forward, their curiosity as yet unabated.

Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley, who was still lost in some kind of reverie, seemingly impervious to the crispness of the night air. He returned his attention to the abandoned cat and began to examine it. He floated a hand well above its body, bumping into a couple of cold inquisitive noses that refused to move. "Give me some room here," he said finally, and gestured for them to shift back a pace. With surprisingly good grace, they obeyed. Just then Crowley dropped down beside him. "She's about ready to pop, isn't she? I can smell it."

"Yes, if you mean she is imminently to give birth. Other than that—and being terrified and abandoned—she's fine." He passed the small light to Crowley and picked the box up with the cat still in it. "There should be more suitable, larger boxes upstairs." He began to walk back down the hedged lane. "We'll just have to sacrifice some towels."

"I'll meet you there." Crowley set the light to bob on its own in front of Aziraphale and took off at a lope toward the cottage, accompanied by Pox and another cat.

Aziraphale, in the center of a phalanx of cats, kept his stride steady and smooth. The cat rocked back and forth with the movement, but no longer appeared alarmed. Her purring was pleasantly calming. 

Her eyes were a brilliant green and they were fixed on him. He tutted quietly at her, and she blinked slowly. The poor creature must be exhausted. As he made his way up the long drive, he could not help contemplating the appalling cruelty of humans. Dumping this animal on a bitterly cold night was horrible enough. But to trap it, in its condition and inside a too small container …. He could not understand it. And, if it were in his power, he would smite those responsible with the fullness of his wrath.

They were greeted at the door by Crowley, who stood aside while Aziraphale and his escort passed through. "Where?" asked Aziraphale, and Crowley replied, "Study." At Aziraphale's questioning look, he said, "It's warm and quiet. And all of the cats will have to behave."

In the corner not far from the fireplace a high-sided box, with an opening the size of a small cat cut into one end, waited. Aziraphale took the black cat there and, after lowering the small box into it, gently decanted her onto the towels. She stepped out delicately and immediately began to inspect this new space. Crowley set a porcelain tray with a shallow bowl of water and another of food beside it. The scent of it drew her out. 

With a penetrating stare she studied both Aziraphale and Crowley before finally crouching in front of the water, which she lapped with evident need. The bowl of food did not interest her and she returned to the box to dig and pull until she had the towels arranged to her satisfaction. Once she was lying down, Crowley stretched a lightweight throw partway over the top, providing some privacy for her. All of Hannah's cats, with the exception of one or two, sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace, apparently supervising from a safe distance.

Aziraphale returned to the sofa and heavily lowered himself onto the cushions. This was a creature that was obviously used to human company, which made her ill treatment all the more damning. Crowley, who had stepped out of the room again, shortly returned with yet another box, this one short-sided, lined with cardboard, and filled with sand. He put it on the floor on the opposite side of the cat's bed, well away from the food and water tray. He sat down next to Aziraphale with a long sigh, picked up his bowl of popcorn, and ate a couple of handfuls before reaching for his wine, which was now warm. He drank it anyway.

"I'll get another bottle—" Aziraphale began, but Crowley clamped a hand on his thigh and held him in place.

"No hurry."

Aziraphale finally realized that Crowley was upset. His eyes, sharp as diamonds and sparking, veered from the TV screen to briefly study Aziraphale's face before turning back. He rubbed Aziraphale's thigh as if to soothe a hurt, though the grip of his hand, tight as it was, had not caused any harm.

Aziraphale rested back beside him, and ate the last piece of the slice of stollen. It was not often that Crowley gave in to rage, and Aziraphale should have sensed it before now. But, for the moment, massaging Aziraphale's knee seemed to soothe him, so Aziraphale said nothing, even when he could feel heat building beneath the demon's palm.

Over the next half hour, as the cat became more distressed, Aziraphale took to asking Crowley about the movie, which they were watching with the sound turned off, using conversation as a distraction. In that way they were able to pretend to pay no attention to the animal's soft mewling and the ongoing pacing, digging, and pawing. When she began to pant and clean herself, Crowley took the bowl, empty of popcorn, and Aziraphale's used napkin, and strode out of the room. Upon his return, with some tiny Devil's Food cakes and a bottle of wine, Aziraphale pointed wordlessly at the box.

Inside was a tiny black kitten being thoroughly mauled by its mother. She ignored Crowley's interest as she cleaned the weakly struggling newborn. When she began to eat the afterbirth, he grunted, and turned away.

He settled on the sofa next to Aziraphale, who busied himself pouring the wine. Crowley accepted the glass Aziraphale handed him and then waited for Aziraphale to fit himself back beside him. He slung his arm around his shoulders and let his head rest against soft curls.

"Did you kill them?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nah." Aziraphale felt all of the remaining tension run out of him. He kissed Aziraphale's cheek. It seemed to please him that Aziraphale had acknowledged that it had been an option. On the TV screen, another ferocious melee broke out, bodies spurting blood, people's mouths open in fury and dying screams. Aziraphale preferred it with the sound off.

"But they won't do it again."

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against Crowley's jaw. "No?"

With cold satisfaction, Crowley said, "No."

"What did you do, then?" He glanced across at the cat's box and could just see that the kitten had attached itself to a teat and was suckling with some force, tiny paws kneading instinctively against its mother's skin.

"Their car broke down. Two tires flat, for no reason at all."

Aziraphale didn't try to hide his disappointment. "Some kind fool will undoubtedly offer assistance."

"Unlikely."

Hopeful, Aziraphale asked, "And why is that?"

"They're covered in boils. Enormous, excruciatingly painful, suppurating boils. Every inch of their bodies. Every inch." He raised his glass to his lips. "Surprised you couldn't hear the screams. They really weren't that far away."

"Oh."

"They'll heal—eventually," Crowley said. With a small, fierce smile, he added, "But if they even think about doing anything like that again … well, they'll be all over boils again."

Aziraphale set down his glass. He didn't ask Crowley how he had meted out this much-deserved justice—he was a demon, after all. But he remembered the way he had stared toward the east end of the lane while Aziraphale had been freeing their new furry guest. He turned toward him, put a finger alongside his chin, and guided his head down so he could kiss him. It was a soft, thorough kiss, and when they pulled away, their lips were slow to part. "Thank you." He reached for another square of chocolate cake.

By dawn, there were three newborns in the box and an exhausted new mother taking advantage of their slumber in order to attend to feeding and cleaning herself. As morning light began to filter through the curtains, Hannah's cats rose, stretched, eyed the plate of food, and wandered out, probably in search of their own breakfast. They would have to wait for Crowley, who was currently dozing. Pox returned just as Aziraphale was gathering plates and glasses. Shaking his head at the cat, he gave Crowley a nudge.

Crowley awoke at once. "What?" He followed Aziraphale's pointing finger and groaned, "Pox!" He dragged himself to his feet and, heaving a hard-done-by sigh, went over to consider the small grey form that Pox had dropped on the floor in front of the black cat's bed. He picked it up very gently, ran a finger down it's bloodied chest—the blood disappearing in the wake of his finger—and puffed life across its still form. The mouse stirred drunkenly, then seemed to realize with shock where it was. Crowley cupped his hands around it so it could not escape. By then Aziraphale was waiting outside the room in the hallway for both Crowley and Pox—the cat in a state of some dudgeon at the confiscation of his gift—to come out. Handling the tray one-handed, he closed the door, leaving the new family in privacy.

The dishes were drying in the rack when Crowley returned, and he was alone. He shut the door and yawned extravagantly while raising his arms over his head in a long, lithe stretch. 

"You don't suppose it's the same mouse?" Aziraphale asked. He put the towel on its hook and took hold of Crowley's hand, taking his time to weave their fingers together.

"A little thrill-seeker?" Crowley laughed. "I hope not. Talk about difficult relationships." He belatedly noticed that he was being tugged along, down the hall. "Where are we going?"

"Well," Aziraphale said, leading Crowley toward the foyer, "you took me to Bignor as a Christmas present—don't say otherwise; I know it was planned. So—" his voice was a little higher than usual, this not the sort of thing that he naturally spoke aloud, "—I thought I'd take you to bed and—you know. It's not much of a present compared to a Roman villa—"

"Wait," Crowley said, wide awake now. "You don't think I bought it for you?"

Aziraphale laughed.

Crowley smiled warmly down at him. He said, in a voice thick with anticipation. "There is _nothing_ I want more, angel." He stopped at the foot of the stairs and gestured up the hall toward the study. "I'm just going to build up the fire and make sure the spark guard's in place."

"And then, maybe," Aziraphale went up to the second step and turned to look down at him, "we can—" he opened his eyes wide, "—revisit our honeymoon."

"Revisit?" Crowley couldn't hide his confusion. "You want to go back to the hotel? They're probably—"

But Aziraphale halted him with a single, upraised finger. "Perhaps I should say—" he picked his words with care, "—re-consummate our marriage?" He could feel heat rising from the base of his throat all the way up to his hairline.

Crowley's eyes grew even more intense and yellow. He came up alongside Aziraphale on the stair and nuzzled his ear. "Best present ever." 

Aziraphale closed his eyes as Crowley kissed him. When their mouths came apart, he whispered, "I'll be waiting."

* * * 

Much later that afternoon, amid a bitingly cold mist, they carried the new family through the hedge gate to Hannah's place, having warned her ahead of time that she was getting an addition to her family of cats. She greeted them at the door, peered into the box and exclaimed her joy in the softest of tones. The small black cat meowed back at her. Crowley helped Hannah to settle mother and kittens in a quiet corner of the kitchen, it being the warmest room in the house, while Aziraphale opened the bottle of wine he had brought along to toast the day.

They stayed for a glass of wine and a freshly baked biscuit and then left Hannah cooing over her new charges. On the way back, Aziraphale carried a basket filled with treats made by Hannah and Julie, some of which had been rather fancifully decorated by the kids. Aziraphale had said nothing about the angel and demon biscuits bathed in lurid icing.

He felt utterly at peace. Thinking back to the day, well over a year ago, that he and Crowley had swapped bodies, the day that for him had marked the beginning of this latest journey, he could summon all too easily the raw feelings of despair and regret he had felt then. But now—

"Where will you plant the apple tree?" he wondered, a question that, until now, he had not thought to ask. The air under the trees was very cold on his face and the breeze that swirled round them seemed determined to cut to the bone. But Crowley's hand was warm in his and it wasn't that much farther to the cottage.

Crowley smiled slightly. "Center of the garden, of course. Pride of place." He looked down at him, his snake eyes so unlike human eyes, but capable of great warmth and affection, which glowed in them now. "You'll help?"

"Yes." He thought about it. "And when it bears fruit, I have all sorts of recipes: apple crumble, apple tart, apple chutney, apple syrup, apple vinegar—"

Crowley let go of Aziraphale's hand to peel back a corner of the light kitchen towel covering the basket. He lifted out one of the demon biscuits and eyed it skeptically, while absently tucking the wrap back into place. Catching up Aziraphale's hand again, he bit off the top half of the biscuit. Chewing slowly, he offered the remaining piece to Aziraphale. "Not bad," he decided.

Aziraphale took a small bite. He allowed the flavors and textures to mingle in his mouth. Humming his agreement, he ate the rest of it.

"Not as good as yours, though," Crowley said loyally.

Aziraphale gave him a smile of pure sweetness. As Crowley opened the hedge gate, Aziraphale asked, "What are we watching tonight?"

Crowley's whole face brightened. "Dinosaurs!"

"Oh." A little fastidiously, he said, "I suppose they're the people-eating kind?"

"Loads of people," Crowley said enthusiastically. His tolerance for blood and violence was, perhaps not unsurprisingly, much higher than Aziraphale's.

Their breath rose in voluminous clouds, billowing in front of them as they made their way toward the cottage. They came out from under the dripping trees and into the mist. The light was soft and everything smelled fresh and clean. Crowley went on, "Just us tonight. No cats. No kittens. No mice."

"That'll be a novelty." But he spoke absently, his thoughts having wandered back to this morning. They had indeed re-consummated their marriage, and even the memory of it made Aziraphale's insides melt. He realized he was squeezing Crowley's hand with needless force and conscientiously eased his grip, rubbing the ball of his thumb against Crowley's skin in apology

"Penny for them," Crowley said.

"Just—you. Us," Aziraphale replied honestly. He could feel his cheeks warming.

"This morning?"

"Yes." He risked a quick upward glance and found Crowley's eyes shining down at him, making no effort to conceal his feelings.

"We'll get better with practice," he assured Aziraphale, and squeezed his hand back.

"It was perfect," Aziraphale said.

"Well—it's still good to practice."

Aziraphale grinned. Crowley's answering smile was roguish.

Hand in hand, they walked across the grounds, sharing another biscuit on the way—this one an angel. As the outlines of the cottage—their home—appeared through the mist, Aziraphale said with cheerful contentment, "Happy Saturnalia, Crowley."

Crowley leaned closer and brushed his lips against Aziraphale's temple. "Merry Yule, angel."

END


End file.
